Of Tears and Mist
by Snezhinka
Summary: A journey through time and space, through a love story that lasts forever. From Frederic Chopin to the Little Mermaid, from a modern millionaire to Beadle Bamford's estranged mother, they all have something to say about the story...of a certain Barber.
1. The Waiting Woman

Hello there reader :-)

This is a series of stories I wrote as part of a larger anthology of stories called "Tales of Albion", that revolve around English life. Some of them are based on real events, some on fiction, some are my original stories. They are not all fanfiction, so I cannot post them all here, but I might post them elsewhere. I will notify if I do.

"Of tears and mist" is series of stories based on Sweeney Todd; since I love the movie so much, I just had to add a little compendium of stories based on Sweeney Todd into my little anthology.

All the original stories I have already written are in Russian, and I am now translating into English. I will be happy to hear any suggestions about improvements in language, since English is not my first language, although it is my best foreign language. If I gather more readers (I hope!!), and someone asks for the original Russian stories, I will post them!!

I hope you like this compedium, and I hope you recognize characters and places, since I will not always make them obvious; sometimes you might meet someone you know, or notice a hidden link, surprise or connection! Sometimes, I might take some liberties with the original plotline, but nothing too obviously deviant. I look forward to reading your comments.

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I. _The Waiting Woman _

"Rotten, wet place this is, lad."

The rain was not so strong, not as strong as it was when the ship was entering the harbour. Then, it had come down in sheets, obscuring the view with a watery film, and if one just about forgot the presence of solid ground beneath one's feet, one would think they were underwater, in some resurrected Atlantis.

Now, it came down in little droplets; soon it would reduce to a simmer, and then simply an occasional drip-drop from the sky. But it would never stop. No, that would not be London if it did.

Now the constable, who usually patrolled the harbour with a set face and a clock in his mind, counting down the idle, cold minutes of uneventful duty, stood side by side with a young, fair-headed man, whose smile immediately gave him away as a newcomer to London. When he thought of the idealistic enthusiasm with which young people regarded the job of a 'guardian of law and order', he would snort, in a way that ruffled his rich ginger moustache, in which he had recently started detecting flecks of gray. Flecks of gray that despaired him to no end, that he blamed on a life wasted on patrolling a square area of cobbled road leading to a rather deep puddle of dirty water people dared to call a river. Now, for once he seemed to be needed; this over-enthusiastic, ambitious student from Bristol had come to him for advice before he set out to try his luck in this British Atlantis.

"Rotten, wet place this is, lad," repeated the constable to the student. Although happy at being needed, the student stirred irritation deep in the constable's mind. His freckled skin, sun-bleached hair and the jovial smile that one would never find on the face of a Londoner reminded the constable of his own one-time idealism and zeal. In fact, jealous would probably be a better word to describe the constable's feelings, no matter how hard he pretended for himself that he was annoyed.

"There's something romantic about this place…something mysterious," the student said, smile unperturbed. The constable snorted, and the ginger moustache moved. As far as the constable was concerned, the closest London got to being romantic was a brothel.

"Son, London's a tough place," the constable said. Indeed, it was a place tough enough to wipe the smile off any over-enthusiastic scholar's face.

"Oh, I love a challenge…that's why I came here…opportunities are so limited in Bristol, you see…" again, the ginger moustache moved. A crack of thunder muted the constable's snort. _Oh, what I'd give for your limited opportunities in Bristol, son,_ he thought to himself.

"So, I suppose you'd better be on your way, son. There's a carriage for ye. Remember what I told ye about Mrs. Malkin's. Best inn around. An' you'll be off fer a fresh start tomorrow, lad."

As the student made for the carriage, he stopped. If not for the constable and the student, the harbour would have been deserted, and the solitude had that cold, lonely romanticism that so appealed to the student; it was nearly empty, in fact, apart from a couple of unused wooden crates lying a small distance away from the water, and the carriage.

Now, however, a woman, dressed in a ragged dress and bonnet, emaciated and stooping, shakily made her way to the breakwater. She walked purposefully, shivering, clutching her tattered shawl around herself. Yes, there were beggars in Bristol; the student was not a complete ingénue; but for some reason, this woman, whether young or old he couldn't tell, caught his eye. She walked over to a wooden crate and sat down upon it. The wind, cold, bitter, biting, blew on her, making the tatters of her clothing flutter. She did not seem to flinch, but continued to sit there, facing the water, where the ships would dock. She then proceeded to remove her bonnet, and the student had a sudden, fervent desire to approach her and cover her with his warm tweed jacket, with his trusty raincoat. He remembered his mother, ill in her deathbed with fever, he remembered covering her with blanket after blanket as she shivered, and when she became still, he had thought that he had succeeded in making her warm, and he had smiled at her peaceful face. Only when he had laid his cheek against hers, it was cold, and when he called her name, which resounded with a pained echo, throbbing like blood behind a bruise, in his head, she had never answered.

And now, as this woman lifted off her bonnet, he noticed her hair, fair yellow and wispy, the tangled tufts tossed by the wind, and imagined the way it must have looked before, soft, golden, waving down her back, like his mother's. The hair he had so often buried himself in, cried into. The woman continued to sit there, and as the student approached her, careful so as not to startle her, he noticed that her cheek was streaked with water. Was it tears? Or just the rain? She did not look tearful; she seemed distant, perhaps a little expectant. He looked over her tattered form once again, and realized she was waiting, waiting for someone, or something; was she waiting for a ship to bring her a loved one she had lost? Or was she awaiting a storm to take her to him?

"The waiting woman," whispered the constable suddenly, making the student jump.

"Oh, you scared me!" exclaimed the student in a whisper; he had not heard the constable approach him. "Excuse me?"

"The waiting woman," the constable said. As scornful as he was of London and its inhabitants, he loved stories, myths, legends, and tales; he seemed like the skeptical type, but what bored man had not turned to some form of seemingly pointless recreation, something that would occupy his mind? And when the mind tried to justify itself for taking interest in myths and legends, it would whisper to him, in the dead silence of the night: _in every tale, no matter how tall, there is a morsel of truth. _And when that voice spoke to him, it spoke the Queen's English, like that of this student beside him. It made his preoccupation with tales seem important. "She comes here every day, and just sits here, until dawn breaks. Then she gets up and leaves. As simple as that. It's like she's waiting for someone. Or something."

"Who is she?" asked the student, his eyes still on the Waiting Woman.

"No one knows for sure," said the constable, smoothing his moustache with his fingers. "I mean, I see 'er often in town. She begs for money an' all, and me thinks she's not right in the 'ead. She sings, what sounds like nursery rhymes and doomsday prophecies set to music, has a rather foul mouth…but otherwise she's harmless. Just a 'alf-crazed beggar woman. Though apparently she has enough wits left about 'er to come here and wait…"

"She doesn't look crazy," said the student quietly, although he didn't know; did the woman know what – or –whom she was waiting for? Or was it just a bizarre working of the wounded mind, when it recalls little details and makes one perform actions without knowing their grander reasons?

"You 'aven't seen 'er during the day, son."

"But she must have been…been…normal once?"

"Aw, son, lots of stories about 'er around town. Some say she's a ghost – codswallop, of course, it's brighter 'an a Bristol day that she's solid an' alive, an' from this world all right. Some say her husband left at this precise spot, and she comes back 'ere to wait for 'em. That makes more sense, I think."

The student remembered the story, that story his father told him. About the dog. The dog that had belonged to a soldier, a soldier who took the dog to the station, fared it well and left for war; the soldier died in that war, and the student didn't remember why that war was fought, and who fought it, and it didn't matter, but he remembered the dog, because that's what mattered. Because the dog came to the station every single day, and sat there waiting for his master. Because even years and years passed after the soldier's death, the dog came back to the station, at the same time every day, and waited for his master, until the dog itself died. Died at the station. And the student thought they should have put up a statue, one of the purest gold, to commemorate this dog's loyalty; a statue worth more than those of Napoleon and Alexander the Great; worth more than any loot gained in battle.

And it did not matter, whether one was a dog, or a human being, or a ghost. Loyalty and love don't know these divisions.

And he sat down, a little distance away from the Waiting Woman, and heard the carriage horses trot away, the constable retiring to his post. The tiny droplets of rain became bigger and bigger, faster and faster, but neither the Woman, nor the student moved. He let the rain stream down his face, and soon he wondered why the rain was so hot on his cheeks. He let it wash away his pride and the volumes of pointless literature stored away inside his head. He let it wash away the money from his dreams, the ambition and greed that went hand in hand although he denied them, leaving only him, naked, raw in his humanity, leaving only the last tune his mother played for him on the piano reeling in his head, the tune that his father would replay thousands of times on his violin with its bow of shredded horse hair, not for love of the music, but for the memory it created.

Soon, in its eternal cycle of flood and simmer, the rain died down, and the clouds dissipated.

The horizon lightened to a washed-out indigo. When the student turned, the Woman was gone.


	2. Atonement

II. Atonement

The best way to smooth out the lines on one's forehead, to let thoughts fly and breath slow, was to lose oneself in a view. To gaze out of a window. No matter how ugly a view your particular window offers you, it will serve well to distract, for after a short while, after one contemplates the ugliness of the smouldering chimneys or smoking factory pipes, rivers of dirt on the streets and the red stain that one so desperately wishes was tomato sauce on the opposite wall, one will lose oneself in the details. Something ugly might be made of beautiful things, only these things are so wrongly put together that they make a displeasing overall picture. Like clashing colours, that, if viewed alone, are vibrant, beautiful and pleasing, but if put together, hurt the eye. Like a pink hat on ginger hair.

So the old man focused on the tealy grey of the sky, its sfumato clouds and smudges of prussian blue, the hint of yolk yellow at the horizon and the deepening of colour to the west until the sky looked like the wet asphalt down below, beneath the black smoke, billowing out like clouds of chiffon from the pipes. He focused on the architecture, the perfectly planned out façades and balconies, imagined them sketched in pencil, adorned by those impressive, beautifully exact pencilled lines that architects used for guidance.

Footsteps distracted him from his reverie, and he turned his head to behold his son, freshly arrived from Cambridge. His boy. The boy he had not seen for all these months, the boy he thought his elderly mind had dreamed up on its own in his months of absence. The boy who was too perfect to be his son, to be anybody's son in the world he lived in; the clever boy who was to become a historian. To become successful; to amount to something, to pass on something useful to the next generation. To be remembered when he died. Selfish though it seemed, this boy was the man's final opportunity to achieve something in what he saw as a failed life. His final opportunity to give the world something to atone for his past. That unburiable past.

He scolded himself, internally, for not shedding a tear when holding his son, his dear boy, for the first time in so many months. Had he not missed him? Why did the tears not come, as the boy placed his chestnut head on his shoulder and whispered, «papa», with reverence and love in his voice? And did he even deserve such reverence?

All he managed, to his self-disgust, was, «I'm so happy to see you again, so happy.» _The words, if put on paper, _the man thought, as the boy smiled and replaced his beautiful head on his shoulder, _would seem bland and uninteresting. If a writer used them in a book, he would be scorned as inferior. _But did words matter? Could tears not be faked? If something was loaded with genuine emotion, is it not enough, or does one have to have something to show for it?

«There are some things proffessors do not know, papa, although they pretend they do. When they talk of certain things, they hide behind beautiful words, but what they say has no meaning.» The boy's eyes were large, and hazel. _Like his mother's._ There were flecks of yellow around his pupils. He averted his eyes from his son's. He didn't wish to spoil the reunion with poignant memories.

«What things, son? Tell me, although I'm not sure if I'll have an answer for you.» That he said with a chuckle, a genuine one; he was actually rather surprised at it when it came out of him; for the last few months alone, when he made small talk with people he new, or pretended that he knew, he would chuckle from the mouth. This one had come from the heart.

«I understand the motivation Mary Tudor – Queen Mary – Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon's daughter - had when she condemned all those people to die at the stake. She wanted to save her faith. She wanted to restore England's ties with Rome. But does that justify what she did? All the people she burned alive? Many of them innocent?» again, those eyes, always those large, clever, hazel eyes. _Her_ eyes. And as he thought of her, this time not bothering to avert his eyes, her image, comingling with thoughts about Bloody Mary and her war on heresy, changed into that of another woman he had loved, albeit in a very different way. The woman that, for a brief, happy time, was his mother, although she bore no natural relation to him. The woman who was not an angel, who was not perfect, who had been, in fact, a criminal, a criminal of the worst sort, but who was his mother, and whom he always cherished as such.

He sighed deeply, and looked his son square in the eyes, in those hazel eyes.

«I don't know if what I tell you now will answer your question directly; I am an old fool who knows nothing of history, and old fool you have no reason to be proud of,» he said, motioning to his son to not interrupt him with his protests at this statement, «but I can tell you something, something I hope you will learn from. It is something I told no-one, not even your mother.» A protracted silence followed this statement. The old man was swallowed by shame. His wife had been married to a murderer and had not known it. _I was young,_ he told himself. _Young and stupid. _But another voice spoke to him, from the part of his mind that must be his conscience: «_some boys as young as you were then are older and wiser in mind than you are even now, and you are quite wise.» _He brushed the voice off.

«I never knew my parents, as you know. I was left at an orphanage by my birth mother right after I was born. She got rid of me. Why, I don't know. I don't want to know. These memories are blurry, and my mind is slow, so forgive me, son, if the detail is not as rich as you wish it to be, as you are used to it being in your Cambridge lectures, but I wish you to hear me out, with no interruption.» At this, his son nodded solemnly, still kneeling before his father. «I will understand if, when I have finished telling you this, you will stand up and leave, and shun me, and no longer consider me your father. I will understand, and I will deserve it.» _Though the grief will kill you. Don't tell him,_ said that voice.

_Hush, satan, _mentally replied the old man, brushing that voice off once again.

«I was sent to a workhouse very early in my life, and I grew up there. It was a hard time; they're cruel, the folks in the workhouse; they'd work us to death, beat us to death and then drank us to death to make us fall asleep when we were too exhausted to. I pray God with gratitude every day of my life that you did not share my childhood.» His eyes studied the boy's young face, and he smiled a genuine smile. «Then, a rather extravagant man came to the workhouse, and said he needed an apprentice. He was a foreigner, an Italian barber who had a penchant for shows and fame, and blew his modest proffession out of proportion with his spectacular weekly performances. Looking back, I realise it was a ruse; he was neither an Italian, nor was he a skilled barber, and nor did he do half of what he claimed he had done. If I were younger, son, I would have told you he wasn't a good man; however, life has taught me not to compare men by good and bad. It's a bad measure, son, a guarantee for failure in life.

Now, I was a hard-working chap, ever wanting to prove myself, and I was one of those who had the luxury of being beaten every other day rather than every hour. I was recommended to him, and he took me. I can't describe just how excited I was. Now, son, a detailed description of my life with him is pointless in my opinion, but all I'll say about it is, it wasn't what I expected. I expected shows, entertainment, good treatment and conditions. A beautiful life, like that circusmen and actors lived. Or I thought they lived.

In reality it was no better than the workhouse. Perhaps even worse since we were always on the move. That man was a terrible fraud, sold revolting potions under the guise of miraculous panaceas; he treated me awfully, beat me and fed me little .

Anyhow, one day, it so happened that another barber arrived in town. He was a strange-looking chap, not very talkative, very withdrawn, very mysterious; I never understood him myself, and I think that was part of the problem. I only understood him when others told me about him. He was in the company of a woman, the woman I still consider my mother.» A dreamy look came over his face. «A while after she took me in, I started calling her 'mum', you know, only she thought it was my accent, and that really I was saying 'ma'am'.» He laughed, the sincerity of the laugh taking him by surprise once again. He remained silent for a long while, forming a visual portrait of his 'mum'. The messy hair, the open gaze, the floured hands. Always, those floured hands that had left blotches of white on his dark hair when she hugged him.

«Papa?» his father's distant expression was not an unfamiliar sight to the son. The old man shook his head, chuckled once again, and sighed.

«Ah...off on a tangent again, am I, son?» he patted his hair, young, thick, shiny hair of a beautiful chestnut. His wife had often said he got his hair from her own mother, whose chestnut hair had come down to her waist in her youth. The old man shook his head again. «Well, as I was saying...that new, strange barber challenged my master. Challenged him – and rightly, oh rightly – he was a clever man, saw right through him – and won. Won a sort of public shaving contest. I still laugh at the allegations my master made – that he had shaved the _Pope_...well, my master then decided to pay this new barber a visit. Mum – who owned a pie shop just under this new barber's shop - fed me her pies, and spoke to me while I waited...you know, they were probably the worst pies in London, but then, for me, they were fit for the King. For once someone, a woman, was caring for me in a way I had never known – the woman that had left me on the doorstep of an orphanage had come back, loving and warm, in the form of this sweet pie maker.

Anyhow, I don't know what exactly happened between my master and that barber up there- all that matters is that I ran upstairs, remembering about an appointment my master had with his tailor, and found only the barber – my master was nowhere to be seen. The barber then bade me to go back downstairs – offered me gin – something no workhouse boy would refuse – all this he did politely, but he was threatening. He seemed an actor. A much worse actor, to my eyes, than my master. Now I know he killed my master.» His son gasped. «No, son, don't worry – just listen on. I didn't know he killed him then. But I had lost my trust for the barber, because his politeness had seemed forced, and because there was a menace around him, a hostility that had hit me like a wave. A child does not look for reasons, son. A child is a sincere being, a child is what remains from the perfect man, before he ate the fruit of knowledge. A child sees what it sees and does not try to interpret it differently. And that's what I did. This story is about the barber, but also about that woman. That woman that I loved, and still love with all my heart. That woman that is my mother. Was my mother. She loved me, though her other infatuation – with that barber - took her over at the end. And in it was her end. I think I loved her more than I loved God, if I even believed in God then. You talk of heresy – what is heresy? What was heresy? People expressing themselves. Do you think that those who survived did so because they were true Catholics? As little as I know of history, son, this I know – they survived because they kept their mouths shut.

I watched this woman waste away in her love for this barber. Her unrequited love. As I said, he was introverted, misanthropic. But I was a child, and I didn't ask why. If I had, things might have turned out differently. But if I had, I wouldn't have been a child, would I? He killed her. He killed my mother. I watched, helpless and frozen, as he swept her up in a frenzied waltz and threw her into an oven. Just like those people Bloody Mary burnt, son. I heard her scream and I couldn't save her, I couldn't help her. Now, listen. From the way you looked at me when you spoke of these witch hunts, you seem to think that this wasn't justified?»

«No, father, I don't think murder is justified. But...» his son broke off, and stared out of the window with a pensive expression.

«You have a lot to learn, son. The 'but' is the most important word in that sentence,» said the old man, and smiled at the look of surprise on his son's youthful face. So clever, and yet so naive; so mature and yet so childlike; so wise and yet so inexperienced; so sure, and yet so uncertain. «That's what I thought, too. So I killed him. I killed the barber.»

This proclamation was followed by one of the longest silences of all, one of the longest silences of his life. It was so quiet, that he could hear the slight rattle of the windowpane, the ticking of the clock downstairs. He had never noticed that ticking before. He waited, with baited breath, for his son to stand up and leave. To say he never knew him and doesn't wish to know him. He waited to die inside. But when he chanced to glance at the boy's face, his look of shock changed to a raising of the eyebrows, a look of pity, of – dare he think – forgiveness? Trying to shift the lump in his throat, rising, rising, he continued.

«I slit his throat with the very razor he had been killing people with. Killing the people mum then made into pies.» _Slow down, you're scaring your boy,_ that voice told him. Satan? Conscience? He couldn't tell which was which any more. He brushed it off, as he did. He didn't even look at his son. For all he knew, he might have gotten up and walked away from his murderer of a father. Yet, he said the most unexpected thing.

«I'm glad you finally got it out, father. I've known something's been fighting to get out.» His son's eyes were now creased at the corners, with grief, and yet not hate. Not hate. Not all was lost. Perhaps everything could still be gained. The old man sighed with relief.

«Do you think I was justified?»

His son opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. Then, he said, very quietly, «he killed someone you loved. He killed...your...your mother.»

«The most important words are the shortest, son. If, and but. But –have you heard all of the story? Both sides did bad things. Mum did. I did. The barber did. Now listen. I killed the barber because he killed mum. Mum did what she did because she was blinded by her love for that barber...»

«And the barber?»

«You're learning, son. They told me later. The barber was a man who had run away from Botany Bay in Australia, where he had been sent for life on a false charge by the local judge who coveted his wife. Once the barber was sent away, the judge raped his wife, took her daughter away from her; and after that, she poisoned herself. When he returned, mum lied to him and said she had died, when in reality she had gone mad and sent to Bedlam. She lied because she was in love with him, she wanted him for herself. A selfish desire. We're all governed by selfishness, no matter how much we deny it. And, ironically, the more we deny it, the more selfish we get.

The barber went mad with grief and went on to vengefully slaughter random customers with his razors. Then, he accidentally killed his wife – the poor beggar woman whom no-one recognized, and whom he wouldn't have recognized, blinded by revenge as he was, in the darkness of his shop. But he wouldn't have killed her, if mum hadn't lied to him. Now, can you tell me that I was justified in doing what I did?»

Silence.

«And then, I realised, suddenly, and the realisation was overwhelming – that the dark hatred I thought I saw in his black eyes was in fact misery, torment and despair. I learned that his rejection of mum was because he truly loved only one woman in his life, as man should. His actions were borne of a mind clouded by revenge and loss, loss of everything he once had, everything that makes life worth living. I realised that in his hours of solitude up in his shop, the tragedy ate him alive from inside. He couldn't live as a human being without his wife and daughter.

You know, there was once a composer, a true poet of the piano, who was separated from his homeland, and lived his life in Paris, where he died of consumption. The disease had eaten his lungs out. But was it just the disease? It was also the longing, the longing for his homeland. His homesickness. It ate him out.»

«Frederic Chopin.»

«That's right. This barber, his grief ate him out. Some people become better through suffering, others become wasps. And not of their own willing. You know, when I slit his throat, he put up no fight. He bared his throat for me. He wanted to die, sitting there, tears and blood streaming down his face, cradling his dead wife in his hands. So when you think of atonement, of justification, think of me. Think of my story. Who is at fault? Who is innocent? These questions have no answers.»

And now, those tears that he had wanted to come when he held his son, they came. And now, it was he who placed his gray head on his son's shoulder, and as the boy held him, the boy that was his atonement, he cried for the woman he loved as a mother, he cried for her mistakes and for his own, and he cried for the barber. The barber and his wife.


	3. The Harpsichord Notebooks

I wonder what you made of the last chapter...please review! And I hope you like the next one :-)

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III. The Harpsichord Notebooks

The city slept in its grey mists, in its still, calm waters, in its cold steel silence. It was early morning, and yet the lone, weather-beaten man trudging along the road to Hyde Park, had no method of detecting the time of day but for a Rolex he had safely tucked away into his pocket; the sky gave no such hints in London. Morning, day, evening, summer or winter, everything was painted grey.

London. He hated the place. And he wasn't the only one. And yet, once he set his eyes on the mansion, he loved it. Loved its architecture. Loved the cobbled roads leading to the lines of uniform Victorian houses, mathematically beautiful and precise. Cold. Perfect. Black-and-white. He surveyed his latest fancy, guarded by two Imperial lions, with its massive oak door, marble porch and stairs.

«Good morning, sir,» said a voice behind him. He didn't turn; he simply removed his glasses – those small, round glasses that were perched so far on his long nose that one wondered whether or not the man's eyesight was indeed impaired – and set about wiping them clean.

«Good?» was all he uttered in response to the man. Indeed, what was so good about this morning? He had no time or patience for words with no meaning. If the morning was not good, do not call it so. If you are not well, you do not answer «fine» to a «how do you do?». That's what he believed. His philosophy. _Aut tace, aut locquere meliora silentio. _Only speak if what you want to say is better than silence.

His small, portly companion released another gush of useless words in response to his one. He inhaled deeply, letting the words wash over him, allowing only a twitching of the lip to betray his annoyance. His annoyance with the sort of people that behaved more like dogs than humans. That snivelled, had a permanently stooping posture, more things than one could carry in their hands and a simpering tone of voice with a stutter. His lip twitched again.

«Lets talk business, shall we? The auction takes place on...?» he trailed off, looking the little man in his wide eyes. Wide, over-enthusiastic eyes. He felt a tingling in his lips.

«There's no auction, sir, you see...»

«How so? So I technically did not even have to travel to London? It was quite inconvenient, you know, and I wouldn't have come this early if not for the auction.» He prepared himself for the torrent of apologies as he finished his sentence. After it abated, he demanded a reason.

«Oh, sir, well, you see, it's a most unfortunate circumstance, I don't even know how to explain...»

Maintaining a stony facade, he waited for the words to start making some sense. _Do I have to throw him a bone?_ He thought, demonstratively checking his Rolex. 7.35 London time. Where he came from, it was nearing eleven.

«You see, people seem to think the house is haunted.»

At this, he took the liberty to chuckle. It was half-amused, half-annoyed, that steely little laugh. «Haunted,» he echoed. _Haunted. I cancel five important meetings, and fly to London to hear about...ghosts. Haunted houses. The headless horseman in the back garden and his severed head in the bathroom mirror. _He chuckled again.

«There's no place like London, sir...so, as you see...» _see? I see nothing. This talkative Fido hasn't even shown me in yet and it's nearly breakfast time. «_hm. As you see, after the story of a rape, a disappearance, and five subsequent and consequtive suicides, and of the dead birds, got out, no-one wants the house. It's yours to buy, sir, at a great price.»

«Dead birds?» he echoed, puzzled. As much as he scorned haunting and similar nonsense, he didn't want a house infested with germs. Even if he wasn't going to live in it.

«The previous realtor firm that owned the rights for the house went bankrupt after a married couple who purchased the house filed a lawsuit against them – and won. Thing is, the husband died of poisoning, and some young, inexperienced forensic expert said it was some disease you can get from dead birds. And they'd been finding dead birds all over the house, in strange places. And strange birds, you know, sir – not just pigeons and sparrows – but larks, finches, linnets...the wife once said she found a delightful green finch perched on her windowsill, but when she touched it, she realised it was dead, just slumped against the side of the windowpane.» the little man cleared his throat. For once, what he was saying was of interest. «Later on, before my firm acquired the rights, we had the house checked – no dead birds, no deadly viruses or anything like that hiding in the corners or behind all those paintings...fact is, the husband committed suicide. Drank arsenic. His wife told us in an unofficial interview. She's dead now, so there's no point in concealing it...and the firm closed, so there was no-one to appeal to court to reverse the sentence...»

Haunting. Dead birds. But no diseases or anything that might threaten him lest he ventures inside the mansion or needs to spend a day or two, or a week, there. That was perfect. The rumours only made the house more valuable in his eyes. He was a collector, after all, and he couldn't collect just _any _house.

«Perfect,» he said, echoing his thoughts. The little realtor looked shocked, his mouth half open. That was pleasing, too. The more the shock, the better.

The realtor accompanied him, of course, in his tour of the house, and, for once, he didn't ignore his tirades, since architecture, furniture and the art of living beautifully was his passion, his life, and he could listen to that sort of talk forever. For him, heaven sounded like _«roccocco» _and «_baroque»,_ _«balustrade»_ and «_armoire»_; these words were better than any music to his ears.

The final room was a bedroom, office and a living room, all in one. It was the only room that had curtains, which the realtor threw open, revealing whirlpools of dust swirling in the air. Soon, he noticed that it not only had curtains, but also a set of Victorian furniture, a large, high, double bed with a single pillow, and little round table of what looked like oak, too small to write on, perhaps, but large enough to acommodate a tea set. At the other end of the room stood a dusty Harpsichord. Fascinated as he was by ancient instruments, it first seemed a mirage that the currents of dust particles had conjured for him.

«This room is somewhat special, sir,» said the realtor, rocking from leg to leg, clasping his podgy hands. The lip twitched once again. «It will be stripped bare of any antiques – that is, the oak table, the bed, that old armoire and, of course, the Harpsichord – unless you buy them separately. Most of the antiques were sold, you see, but the most special were decided to be left as part of the house to...um...well, to preserve, so to say, its initial makeup.»

He hardly listened to the realtor's words. He approached the Harpsichord, and stroked the fine, carved wood. His fingers left trails of deep brown in the light ocher dust, trails of brown with inlaid pink and blue, faded with age, faded with use. Worn. He smiled, genuinely.

«Leave me, sir, I wish to think. I will join you in a few minutes.»

Not even turning to look as the realtor left, he walked over to open the top of the Harpsichord. His heart stilled, and skipped a beat. He gasped.

A dead green bird lay inside, a finch, feathers still shiny, wings gently folded. It could be sleeping, if not for the open black eye. There it lay, on the soundboard, so that it's feet were directly above a painted flower, a lily of the valley. If one looked from a distance, or if he took off his glasses, he would think the finch were painted. Painted on that Flemish soundboard.

How long had it been since the instrument had been opened? The layers of dust, unmarked by fingerprints, seemed to be weeks old, and yet the bird was freshly dead. Before revulsion made him look away, before the impossibility of what he saw could register, he notices the notebooks. There were two of them. Bound with a simple, beige cover. Secured with a frayed rope. For once, his skepticism died away. In its place was a new emotion. One that startled him. Curiosity. Curiosity and the fear that goes along with it. Like that of a child playing in the dark.

He took the notebooks, and sat down at the window. The sky had lightened to a light grey now. He didn't bother checking his Rolex. His hands were busy undoing the frayed rope. When it fell open in his lap, some of the yellowing pages spilled onto the floor, floating in the air like square autumn leaves before hitting the ground.

They were both diaries. Written in one hand. A girl's hand. He could detect youth in the bold strokes, her femininity in the curve of her letters, in the neatness of the line of writing.

He opened it at random, in the middle, and read.

_April 3__rd_

_Oh, joyous news!__ The judge is going to Banbury, some place in Oxfordshire. For five whole days! He's packing right now, his carriage leaves in half and hour! This is wonderful, dear journal, wonderful! The Beadle is going with him, and the housekeeper is supposed to ensure I don't leave. The housekeeper is an man called Greg who spends half his life sleeping. The judge probably doesn't know that because he never has anything to do with servants.. I can't wait for him to leave! I can think of so many things I can do. _

The next few pages were blank – some seemed to be simply washed out, others faded with age. He flicked through the notebook. Some were written in pencil, others in pen. Only a few penciled entries survived. He turned to another.

_April 8__th_

_I wonder if my father thinks of me. I think he does. Will he always think of me as a little baby? Or will he imagine me as a younger version of my mother? Does he think I'm living with my mother? Or does he know she's gone? If so does he think I am at an orphanage? Or does he wonder what has become of me? Or does he think I'm still with her? Is he planning to escape? Does he hope to find me and mother waiting for him? On the one hand I hope he does not know the truth; I hope he thinks I am living with my mother, waiting for him to come home. Ignorance is bliss. But on the other hand ignorance is only bliss while it lasts; if he comes back home expecting this, he'll be hurt. I don't want him to be hurt. If he found out what has become of me, and if he cares, I think he will be miserable. I wouldn't want that. _

_I want to write to him. But I know I cannot. Some things are impossible. If he does not know, I do not want to be the one to plunge the dagger into his heart. If he does, I do not want to further hurt him by telling him of my present situation. But do I have to talk about myself? I do not have to, But what would I say, if I concealed that? Besides, then I would commit myself and if he would write back I will have to clarify things… I am tired, and all this is so complicated, it is making my head hurt. Maybe I'll sleep tonight. That old fart Greg is snoring like a mastiff with an enormous pillowcase on his face and some book in hieroglyphics on his lap. He either belongs in Bedlam, or he understands hieroglyphics, which is unlikely. _

_J.B. _

He had her initials. Not her name, but her initials. Was that not good enough? And why did the sound of the first letters of her name send joy coursing through his veins? He, so rational and cold. So skeptical and doubtful.

_March 14__th_

_I do not want to write anything today. _

_March 20__th_

_I just realized how silly my last entry was._

The first notebook was otherwise empty – or washed out – or, perhaps, tampered with. He unbound the second. This one was stronger of binding. Only a page fell out. A page from which something golden, light, wispy, spilled. Picking it up, he realized it was a lock of hair. A woman's hair. J.B.'s? Perhaps. Probably. In fact, certainly.

_December 20__th_

_This journal is starting to scare me already. I have said too much. What if he finds it? What if, what if, …but I cannot stop writing. I don't have anyone else to tell these things to. I spend a lot of my time reading, making things, writing, and playing the harpsichord when he isn't here. But mainly I gaze out of the window. I gaze at the world I never knew, at the world I'll never know. Perhaps, if I start recording little things I notice every day, I might feel normal. For once. Today, I saw four young boys playing. Right under my window. Needless to say, they were lucky the judge was at court, or he'd have them punished for intruding on his peace. From what I understood, they organized a spitting competition…the best spitter getting a prize, though they fought over it in the end. _

_I think about my parents sometimes. My parents are a forbidden topic in his home. But I don't really belong there, do I? Is it possible to belong somewhere where you are in so much pain you'd rather die? I'd rather die, but I wish someone would do it. Quickly, like a puff of a candle blown out. I have a feeling he will kill me in the end, but I don't want it that slow. It terrifies me. How lucky it is for one like me to die in battle! A bullet straight to the head in the whole chaos of the fight, one will not even notice the blow! A bullet to the head. But I am too scared to do it myself. _

_I'm thinking about my parents now. I wish I had a picture. My mother is dead, he told me. He says she committed suicide. I wonder why sometimes, although something tells me that it has something to do with my father being sent away. He lectures me about the vulgarity of my father every day. I used to believe him, out of childish stupidity, I used to feel a vague gratitude even, that he had taken me away from such an allegedly evil man, until the day he became too cruel to bear. Do I now? Do I believe the things he says about my father? No, I do not think so. _

_J.B. _

J.B., J.B., what happened to you?

_September 2__nd_

_Sometimes, when he calls me ungrateful, for not accepting his alleged love, for complaining about loneliness, even for the men that chanced to glance at me when he happened to be looking, too, I wonder about gratitude. _

_I have read King Lear. One could call Gonerill and Regan ungrateful. One could even call good, dear Cordelia ungrateful, though her only fault was probably excess stubbornness…but why must one be grateful to someone for their money? So, if one buys me food, I must marry him? Even if he does so out of covetousness and selfish desire? Must I be grateful to a tormentor, because he is the lesser evil? _

_J.B. _

Another few blank pages, pages on which he nevertheless could feel the touch of J.B.'s hand. The hand that had brushed these pages as her fingers clasped a pencil, or a quill pen, the feather brushing her cheek as she bent over these pages, these yellow, worn pages. J.B...

_September 23rd _

_Green Finch and Linnet Bird, Nightingale, Blackbird, how is it you sing? How can you jubilate, sitting in cages, never taking wing? Outside, the sky waits beckoning, beckoning, just beyond the bars...How can you remain, staring at the rain, maddened by the stars? How is it you sing? Anything? My cage has many rooms, damask and dark, nothing _

The page was torn at this point, the rest of J.B.'s melancholy poem - or was it a song? - gone forever, and he was grateful for it. He wished to read no more. And yet, furtively affirming his solitude with a brief glance around the room, he stowed the books into his jacket pocket. It was not theft; he would acquire the harpsichord anyhow, he told himself.

He sat at the little table, and leaned his head onto the windowsill, observing the city that was slowly coming alive. The grey city that held so many secrets. The city he had once despised, but now loved, for the memories it cherished, for the surrealism that prevailed within it. And as he ran his fingers over where the poor, lonely J.B. had done, as he sat in the very chair where she sat, dreaming of a life beyond her cage, he wondered about freedom and death just as she feared she would die like that poor little finch, alone in a beautiful box; he wondered whether the universe with all its vastness and mystery, was enough for man to feel free in, just as this mysterious girl had wondered of the immense city, its towers and chimneys blending far into the horizon; and then he noticed, for the first time, the presence of a gramophone. It stood on the bedside table, and it had been obscured by the massive bed when he had entered. The realtor had said something about it belonging to the previous owners. Collectors, they had been.

Holding the notebooks close to his heart, he approached the grammophone, and as he did so, a lone, pale ray of sun cut through the morning mist. Cut through the torrents of dust in the room.

He lowered the needle onto the vinyl.

It was Max Richter. _The Nature of Daylight. _


	4. Till Death Do Us Part

Dear readers, Happy Easter, for those of you that celebrate it! I decided to post a shorter little story I did on a more religious note. Less extensive and detailed than the last three, but I hope you make the connection to the movie! Enjoy :-)

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IV. Till Death Do Us Part

_To__ have and to hold from this day forward; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part._

How many times had he heard these vows? How many couples had he married? How many had he proclaimed man and wife? Countless people had been united at his altar. Arranged marriages and love matches. Happy lovers and those who were already quarelling before he had the chance to even start the service.

It is the wish of any priest like him to be considered blessed. A luck-bringer. For _his _service to be wanted by the engaged above others,; for marriage in _his_ church to be an honour – a harbour of a long, happy life. Naïve and unreal as it was, it was still something he dreamed of; he often wondered how many of those couples he had wed would go on to honour their vows, and how many would not. He would often remember the faces that had, for one reason or another, stayed in his memory, and wonder how many of them would end up despising eachother, and how many would grow old in each other's arms.

He wondered about it then, years since he had wed his first couple as a young, idealistic minister, and yet with a shaking voice, with quaking hands; he had thought about it as he was on his way to shave his gray stubble. A priest, whether or not he puts God first as he should, or not as most did, must still look presentable.

Perhaps it was good that this priest did not know that he was quite the opposite of what he wished he was. Tracing the fates of previous men and wives that had come out of his church, any engaged couple wishing for happiness would move to a different county, just so as to avoid his church; they would consider him a cursed priest. A bringer of ill fate. His service would be unwanted; marriage in his church would be a foreshadowing of a short and unhappy life – a black cat crossing your road.

As he walked those streets in those final minutes of his life, he remembered one of those couples that had the bad luck to be wed by him. Though of course he thought it was good luck. Ignorance is bliss.

He did not know why he remembered them. Was it because they were so happy? No, that could not be. He had wed many happy couples, love matches, in his life. Was it because they were beautiful? Perhaps. For they were. Both of them. He remembered the wreath of daisies on the woman's yellow hair. He remembered the man's deep brown eyes. Sincere. Beautifully shaped. And yet, he had wed plenty of beautiful couples in his life. He could even recall those who, one could say, held more physical beauty than those in question. Was it because they were innocent? So young and carefree, eyes open, sincere, unmisted by suffering, hate, loss? Possibly.

And still, he did not know why he remembered those two. The two, that, unbeknownst to the priest, were the unluckiest couple of all of them. Perhaps that dulled sixth sense, the muted sense of premonition that never really registered consciously made him remember them.

It was rather late when he stepped into the barber shop. The sun was setting, and it so happened that on that particular day, the usual London gray at the horizon lifted, revealing splashes of crimson. Crimson on gray, on white. Crimson as his blood, that the barber wiped off his blade, wiped off the floor, wiped off his hands.

The moment before he died, he wondered, once again, why he remembered that particular couple. Perhaps, if he had remembered, if he had recognized the ring on the barber's finger, things would have been different. But coincidence, or her more wayward sister, fate, prevented him from doing so. He paid for it. With his life.


	5. Moja Bieda

Dear readers,

This is a chapter I cherish slightly above others, and it's important to me what you make of it. It's also quite different from the others in the nature of the narrating character. He has come up very briefly in a previous chapter, and I have dropped hints here and there, and I hope you recognize him :-). Don't hesistate to do some googling :-)

Enjoy! :-)

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V. Moja Bieda

Used as he was to living the life of a Gypsy, to being an eternal nomad, his voyage to London did not petrube him in any way. He had long since thought he had succeeded in muting the pain that accompanied him with every step he took away from his home, even if all he did was lock it inside, deeper and deeper, where it ate away at his life. Even if numbing that homesickness was like muting grief with opium. It might not hurt, but it will send you to your grave anyhow.

London was the only way. War, unrest, revolution: oh, those great levelers. Insurrection in Paris had driven away all the aristocracy. Paris was no longer a tall social millefeuille; it was now officially flat. Flat as yeastless bread. Flat as the earth held up by those three medieval whales. All those on whom he depended for a living were gone. His pupils. His inspiration. But as dishonourable to a man of art as it could sound, it was also his money that was gone. Besides, it was not entirely dishonourable since he was not a healthy man since his youth – and poverty and recovery are not two things one usually puts together.

His _youth. _Why had he, unwittingly, used that word in his thoughts? Was he still not young? Was he not loved, and successful? How could he look at the man staring back at him out of the mirror, a little fragile perhaps, and yet young, yet to turn 39, and say his youth had passed? Why, some men are not yet married by 39. _As you have not,_ said a voice inside his head. _And yet you could have been. _A familiar feeling rose inside his chest, that feeling that usually took away one's appetite, and made one restless, made one pace. Up and down, up and down. The feeling that rose in his chest when he thought of his family; of his little house back in Zelazowa Wola, of his mother's soft voice as she called for him, while he stood, hiding, behind those rows of trees before it; of the little brown package with its red ribbon, hidden in the upper drawer. He had brought it to London. He took it with him anywhere he went, and he liked to tell himself that he didn't know why, although he did. It isn't possible to give orders to your heart to forget, to love someone you don't love, or to stop loving someone who doesn't love you, or at least pretends not to.

He approached the set of drawers, and took out the package. He closed his eyes, and ran his fingers over the crinkled brown paper, almost felt the words burn beneath his fingers. _Adieu, mio carissimo maestro. _He could almost trace her writing, feel the warmth of her hand that had brushed over the letter paper. He put the papers down and sighed. Deeply. A luxury he could not afford. A sharp pain seemed to slash his lungs in two, and he fell forward onto his knees, spots of red blooming on the white carpet. Every cough sent white spots dancing in his eyes, until they obscured his vision. White turned black. And for what seemed like the hundredth time, he awoke to find dear Jane, his best pupil, without whom he'd probably have been out begging on the streets of Paris by now, sitting at his bedside. _At least being a starving bohemian artist is somewhat the fashion in Paris, _he thought to himself, _and London isn't the best place for a man with lungs like mine..._she had somehow materialised at his apartment in Dover Street and was now dabbing vinegar onto his fevered brow. Dear Jane.

No matter how hard he tried to seem healthy and strong, he failed, since he was exactly the opposite.

«I wonder the Queen did not invite you to play for her, sir. She is rather fond of music, or so I have heard...», said Jane, dabbing at his forehead with that vinegar-soaked cloth. He had been asked that question before, and his answer had not quite been what he himself believed. And yet, something, perhaps pride, stopped him from being entirely honest with Jane.

«I have been offered the Philharmonic, but don't want to play there because it would be with the orchestra... the orchestra is rather like their roast beef or their turtle soup; excellent, strong, but nothing more. Perhaps her Majesty has been somewhat affronted by that."

Jane frowned, but said no more. Dear Jane. The truth was, he would pass out cold before he could muster enough strength to play the first movement. And yet he would not admit it. Besides, he had a concert to perform at that very night, arranged for him by Lord Falmouth. He had great expectations for this performance, for the Lord was a generous man, a genuine music-lover, and invited all who wanted to come, as many as would fit in his home in St. James' square, to his music evenings. Such a larger-scale showing could grant him more popularity. He had not quite met many people such as the Lord Falmouth, and often wondered about him, and his place in that social millefeuille; he was very rich, and yet he did not spend all that wealth the way others spent it, on rather pointless things such as golden chamber pots. In fact, _you might give him a few pence if you passed him in the street, and his house is full of servants who dress better than he does._ He invited commoners to enjoy the privileges of the upper class; he gave money to poorhouses. Having a friend as Lord Falmouth made his chest swell with pride.

As he entered Lord Falmouth's home, hoping that he did not smell of salad dressing thanks to Jane's remedies, as he entered the enormous circular performance room, it was already crowded. Crowded by all, from working-class families to aristocrats. He tipped his head as he noticed Lord Falmouth occupying one of the front chairs.

His heart swelled with pleasure as he sat down at the piano: it was a Broadwood, and oh, what luck it was for a pianist to find a familiar instrument in a concert hall! It is true that a good pianist must be able to perform on any instrument, even one that could not even be close to identifying as a viable pianoforte, and yet it is always heartwarming to feel at home. _You're even further from home than you were before,_ said the voice in his head. His mother's voice. _Hush, mama, I need to concentrate. This is important. _And, ever attentive, ever loving, she became silent. And, soon, as he started playing, the hush fell over the entire party of listeners. It was not customary to be entirely silent as such social gatherings, and absolute silence was improbable, considering the number of commoners in the room. And yet, Ballade after Nocturne, Nocturne after Berceuse, every note that flowed by seemed to make the entire London grow quieter, and quieter. It was as if the music descended with the mist, and dampened all noise. A wave of tranquility. Solitude.

He felt reinvigorated during the break, and as he stood up from the piano, to loud applause, all the health Jane's vinegar compresses could not return seemed to come back to him. Applause was, to the soul of the artist, the best prize.

That was when he saw him, and thought that, perhaps, vinegar made one hallucinate. Beethoven. There he sat, in a black waistcoat, with the billowing sleeves, his hair wild, a black halo about his head. Not applauding. His hands were passive, one lying idly on his knee, the other supporting his head from the side. He had not stood up when the music had stopped. Beethoven did no such thing. Beethoven had not bowed when the Royal Family had passed him by at Teplitz. He had even commented that there are _many princes, but only one Beethoven._ He had been right. And, perhaps, he had been right not to clap now, for he was Beethoven. Inferior to no-one. Proud, so proud that he would waste an evening, a precious evening of his life on going to listen to music he could not hear.

A streak of gray traveled through Beethoven's wild black hair on one side. Standing before him, before this great composer, before the man who had written the 9th Symphony without an ear to aid him, in that one moment, he felt like he had traveled in time. He was once again a boy caught in wrongdoing by his father. A pupil, having made a mistake too many before his master.

Suddenly, Beethoven looked at him. Looked at him square in the eyes. Looked at him with his own tormented, dark-rimmed eyes. His cheeks were sunken, revealing high, well formed cheekbones. His nose was straight, sharp. His lips full. His eyebrows heavy and black, slightly raised. Was he indeed old? The gray streak spoke of age, and yet, it seemed from his face that he was tired, not old. Tormented, not aged.

He took a few steps towards Beethoven, and, with fear and reverence in his eyes, bowed his head. Beethoven looked perplexed, shocked. His eyebrows shot up, and he ran his eyes over the young composer before him. They looked at each other, lost for words. His expression still lost, and confused, Beethoven stood up. Too solid to be a hallucination, or a ghost. Too young to really be Beethoven. Too alive to be Beethoven. _Beethoven had died 22 years ago..._The Beethoven-man nodded swiftly to him and looked down, looking dejected. His eyes then darted between the composer, and the empty chair beside him.

"I'm sorry, sir, I thought you were someone else," he said, and made to walk back to the piano, although the break was not yet over.

"I came here because of my wife," the Beethoven-man said. He turned to see him still standing, looking as dejected as before, staring at that chair beside him. That empty chair. The Beethoven-man continued. "I remember that it was a dream of hers to…to hear you play." His mouth closed, and he continued staring at the chair. That empty chair. He looked like a lost puppy. Did Beethoven look like this man, when no-one else could see him, behind closed doors, alone and deaf, with no need for pride and pretence? The noise in the room was phenomenal, and yet for the two men, unnoticed by the others, it was silent. Beggar-like Lord Falmouth swore loudly. Still, silence.

"She was a good player herself. Played some of your pieces. Earlier pieces." With every word the Beethoven-man spoke, his eyes fluttered shut a little, and his eyebrows rose slightly. A lump rose in his throat at the sight of this man. This Beethoven-man.

"She didn't live to see you come to London." His voice was low, gruff. The last word was slightly broken, as if the man's voice was about to crack. He had turned away from the composer so that he could not quite see his eyes in full. He was greatful for that – he felt that if he saw this man's eyes, saw this Beethoven-man's eyes, saw the tears he heard in his voice, he would go down like he had in the morning. He would collapse in another dreadful coughing fit, right here. Collapse and perhaps, even die.

Finally, the composer plucked up the will to speak.

"Your wife, sir, did she have any particular favourite? Anything she loved playing, any of my pieces she preferred above all?"

Silence, again, that dreadful silence in the little bubble, where the two men stood.

"She…" silence. Silence. Silence. "She loved all your…your pieces."

Silence. The Beethoven-man opened and closed his mouth, like a fish. A fish out of water.

"She particularly loved to…to play that Waltz. The…" he cocked his wild-haired head to the side, made an abstract motion with his hand and sang a melody. It was off-tune, and in his gruff voice it sounded almost comical, but he realized what the Beethoven-man meant.

"The A-flat major waltz." The farewell song. The dance for Maria. Maria, her warm hand skimming over those letters. Those letters in the crinkly brown package, with the red ribbon. _Maria, moja bieda, __nasze serca roz__ł__ączone, na zawsze już zespolone__...*_

When he returned to the instrument, when all was settled and silent once more, he placed his fourth finger, the finger that would have been adorned by a ring, Maria's ring, their ring, on the E flat, placed his third on the D, and flowed into that waltz, the waltz he thought he'd never play in public. The simple melody that was, in truth so much simpler, as simple as a farewell, as simple as love. As simple as God.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that man, the Beethoven-man, press his palms to his face, lower his unkempt, black-haired head, and he thought, that if he had known of this one woman, he would have come years before, to this mist-filled city, while she still lived. He would have come just for her. Even if he had not been so known then. Even if he had no money to travel. He'd throw himself into a cargo ship and arrive here, and play for her, for this woman now dead, even if she alone sat in this room. But now, he did all he could do.

He played farewell. But not to Maria. Not to Maria.

And as he played, a haggard beggar woman, whom no-one noticed, no-one saw, soundlessly entered through the door to Lord Falmouth's house. How she, half-crazed and oblivious, knew of the performance, one couldn't tell; did the music carry all the way to Hyde Park, to Fleet Street, to her usual haunts? Or did she feel its presence, carried with the London mists? Did the same gut instinct that pushed her to come to the harbour every night tell her the road to St. James' square? And now, the dulled deja vu that welled inside her, having heard the tune, which was so familiar, so painfully familiar, she entered the house, unnoticed, unnoticed, crept through the hallways, and leaned against the doorframe of that crowded room. She listened to that young, delicate man play, not knowing.

Not knowing, that he did not play for Maria.

Not knowing that he played for her.

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_*Maria, my misery, our hearts are separated, and yet forever united (Polish)_


	6. Themis

VI. Themis

The lecture hall smelled of wood, and the open window let in the stench of smoke. At first sight, the hall seemed empty. Timeless. As was everything in a University. No matter what changed beyond it, the world inside the immortal, cold, silent stone, behind the solid wooden desks of polished wood, would never change.

And yet, the hall wasn't empty. In the early morning light, those blissful hours that only stay for a second in human perception, it seemed that the elderly man with his head resting against the light wood of a desk was asleep, and yet, he was thinking. Thinking of how, within these timeless walls, one can change the world. Because he didn't like it the way it was.

In a few minutes, perhaps seconds – passage of time had remained unregistered in the proffessor's mind – students would file into the hall. Some of them there merely at their parents' behest. Those that fooled around, spending lectures tossing paper shapes at others, writing silly notes, sleeping. Some of them were dedicated to the proffession they had chosen. Those that made detailed notes. Paid attention because they wanted to make an improvement in the proffession. Those few that might turn out to become good lawyers. There was, with luck, at most two students of that sort, and sometimes neither of them achieved what they had set out to: to change the face of law. Why? Either because they were weaker than the third type of student; or because they turned into that third type. The third type of student. The worst type. The ambitious carreerists. Those who wanted the money and power. Those who shaped the law as they wanted it.

This was a new year. And with every year, with every January 1st that brought extra lines into the professor's face, he resolved to change this distribution. He resolved, that with every class of his that graduated, the majority of them would be of the second type. Up to now, he had failed. All those years of work at Oxford. All those dry lectures. Thinking that the better the student knew the theory, the hard, solid, fact, the better a lawyer he would make. And yet that theory failed. That much he gathered from the courts of law and what went on inside them. No better than when he had been a student himself, and had had the privilege – if one could call it as such – to observe a number of important trials..._important trials..._

Inspiration hit him like a flash. It hit him in that last moment after over three hours of thought. Thought about how to make the most important law lecture of all he gave every year – the first. First impressions matter, for they are those that stick in one's head. And here, in his first year at the University of London, he would make the right first impression.

And here came the students, one by one, some munching on unfinished food, others talking, others solemn, and others nervous, biting their nails, or simply letting their eyes run amok, darting here and there, wondering what step to make next.

«Put away your books, gentlemen, you will be requiring only your ears today, and nothing more.»

This statement was met, as he had expected, with looks of surprise, quiet mumbling, and a general explosion of shuffling, scratching and scraping. Noise. Noise that did not irritate him, but only brought a smile to his face. Oh, how he wished he were still a fresh, young student, with a spring in his step! How he wished that he could carry his wisdom back into youth, and do something differently, and maybe be of use. Save lives. Or maybe, just one life. One life, would be as much as the world for him. How he wished that he could inhabit, with his wisdom and knowledge, the young heads before him. _How you wished you were some sort of reverse form of a Legion of demons,_ he thought to himself, chuckling. Chuckling and scratching is grey chin. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and began.

«Gentlement, I welcome you to the law faculty of his young University. Now, I worked in Oxford for most of my life, and I could say that I failed. I failed as a university lecturer, as a proffessor, because, from what I saw in the legal system, I realised that I had failed to teach my students to honour Themis. Do you know who Themis is?»

A murmur.

«Themis, the Greek Goddess of justice. The very first thing a lawyer must know is the law of Themis. Can anyone tell me what that is? The law of Themis?»

No-one volunteered. The professor tried again.

«Very well, can anyone tell me what Themis' most distinguished feature is?»

After another wave of muttering, a student put his hand up. He was scrawny, like one of those over-studious types usually mentioned in jokes, wearing glasses as thick as milk bottle bottoms, with an over prominent adam's apple and overlarge clothes.

«She holds a pair of brass scales,» he said. He had a strong lisp.

«No, that is not her most important feature. The most important part is the blindfold. Her eyes are covered. That symbolises impartiality. A judge is a person, true, but only outside the courtroom. Within it, he must be Themis. He is one thing, justice is another. He must forget himself while he works.» The class held no visible reaction to these words. The professor sighed, wondering how many of those students were mentally present in the lecture hall; how many actually listened to him, and not just heard his words, the words that some let to wash over them in waves, disintegrating like the foam on wave crests breaking on the sea shore.

«I see that none of you are disposed to hear of what matters, but we cannot just sit here and do nothing, now, can we? So, let us procrastinate and leave that for another day. Now, I will talk to you about something unimportant. And yet, it might be interesting. So, if you have no patience at all with an old man's incessant babble, you may leave. I shall not object. But if you stay, please listen to my story.»

No-one left. The professor smiled, stood up from his chair and half-leaned, half-sat on the table.

«Once, as hard as this is to believe, I was a young man. Young, with a spring in my step, auburn hair on my head and moustache to shame Velasquez into shaving his off. I was an ambitious law student, at Oxford, and it was my ultimate goal to become a judge of the high court in London. I was not a bad student,» - a few chuckles from the hall. The professor smiled – it was a sign of attention. «In fact, I was a very good one, and I was one of those 'privileged' to go into the London court, and observe a few cases – three, I think it was – and make notes, that I was to bring back to Oxford.»

«Professor?»

The proffessor nearly jumped in surprise. A young man in the back row had his hand raised. The back row. The rich men's sons, the sleepers, the dreamers, the paper-throwers.

«Yes?»

«You say you were one of the better students, Professor? Then, you could have been the honourable judge by now. A high-positioned man. Not here, dealing with us louts,» he said, chuckling. He had a deep, jovial voice. Most of the others laughed with him, nodding appreciatively.

«That's just what this story is about. It was the third case. The last one I had to oversee. It changed my mind. My life. It changed everything.» A short silence followed these words. The silence was absolute. The room crackled with attention. «The first two cases went well. Everything was just. The sentence, the proof, the crime, all followed the rules. Even Themis's law. I had never felt so important before then, never felt so excited at my prospects. Wonderful prospects. Have any of you read, _The_ _Queen of Spades _by Alexander Pushkin? I happen to have learned Russian in my youth, and to have got my hands on some of this distinguished authors' works. In this story – in short, of course – a man sees a vision of an already dead old woman who prophesies that he will win in a game of cards if he bets on, at first, a three, then a seven, and then an ace. With the three, he won. With the seven, he won too. With the ace, he lost. Lost to the queen of spades...that man went mad. I didn't go mad, of course, although...it changed me forever, that court session. The young man who entered the courtroom that day died there, and a totally different men came out of it.»

«You see, the man on trial was accused of murder. A very brutal murder, in face, of a young woman who had been found dead in a London alley. And yet, they could propose no motive for the murder. Not a single witness seemed to agree. In the previous two cases I had heard, the court would go on for hours, until the witnesses would agree. They would never carry out the sentence unless there were no inconsistencies. And yet, that court case, it was like everyone had drunk a bucketful of laudanum. It was the most grave accusation of the three. The previous two had been a theft, and treasonous proclamations against her Majesty. This one, murder, was the most serious, and yet the shortest, most relaxed session. It felt wrong from the start. It was so obvious he was innocent, that poor man. At the end, as his wife sobbed and screamed, _no, no, no, no, no, he is innocent! He was with me when the crime was committed! This is impossible, no, no, no..._those terrible screams that still echo in my head every night before I go to bed, that judge, if one can call him so, said he would 'temper judgment with mercy' and, instead of hanging him, would send him to Australia. For life. A lifetime of hard labour on Devil's Island.»

A universal hush greeted these words.

«I don't know what happened to him, what happened to his family; but what I know is, that half of those sent to Botany Bay don't even survive the journey. What I know, is, that that judge had used a mixture of bribery and intimidation to coerce those responsible into fabricating evidence, into giving false witness, into sealing that poor man's fate...why? Because he wanted his wife. I don't know how that story ended. I don't want to know. All I know, is, that you cannot build happiness on someone else's unhappiness. That's something else learning Russian taught me. They have some good proverbs. Anyhow, I don't want to know what happened. All I know that, after I heard that poor woman crying, crying into her friend's shoulder, after I saw an innocent man's life ruined, I had to try and change things. I would not go into the court that had no respect for Themis. That pull on her hands, place weights in her scales and rip off her blindfold. Judiciary rape, I call it. No other word for it. All I could do, was remain in the university I had learned in, and try to prevent other students, other budding lawyers, from becoming like that judge. I hope that you, aspiring young lawyers, will leave this room with a wiser mind. Wanting to change things, and not just go along with the flow. Flow of corruption and misery. You might not plunge a dagger into a man's heart, but you may commit an injustice towards him that will kill him.»

After the students had filed out, solemn, quiet, so different to how they were when they came in, he opened a cabinet door. There stood a statue of Themis. Her brass scales lay on the floor before her. The proffessor picked them up, and replaced them on her balancing hand.


	7. Prosaic Elegy for Vanka Zhukov

Dear readers,

Here's another one! Before you read, please note that Christmas in Russia is according to the old calendar, on the 7th of January. I know the scene in ST doesn't look like January, but assume it is. It doesn't always snow in winter in England.

This ST character appears VERY briefly, and I hope you recognize him! «Vanka Zhukov» is a short story by Anton Chekhov. The italic parts are almost directly translated from Chekhov's story - although I take a few liberties with the translation. The regular writing is about the ST character. The bold at the end talks about both Vanka and the ST character.

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VII. Prosaic Elegy for Vanka Zhukov

When one does something, anything whatsoever, even something as simple as eating a piece of bread crust or gazing from the window, one might wonder - if one is bored and distracted enough, of course – if someone else is doing exactly the same thing at the same time. Someone else in the same house, or perhaps the same village, the same town, the same country…or the same world. And kismet happens. Even when we aren't quite aware of it.

And yet, on that cold, windy January night, the little boy, so small, so thin, as though he had already partly left the earth before the noose even tightened around his neck, did not think of such coincidences. Quill pen in his tiny hand, a piece of creased paper on the wooden table, at which so many others, young and old, had lain their heads, trying to shut out the hammering of the gallows outside, he glanced around himself, and began to write. Only the letter, this letter that might mean everything, mattered to him now.

_On that cold, windy Christmas night, little Vanka did not sleep. Having waited for the masters of the workshop to retire to their bedchambers, he took an ancient, rusty quill pen and a piece of creased paper from the drawer. Kneeling before the bench, that ancient bench on which so many had sat, thought so many thoughts, onto which he placed the paper, he fearfully glanced around himself, casting, for a moment, his eyes on the dark icon before which the candle burned low, and flickered, and began to write. Only the letter, this letter that might mean everything, mattered to him now. _

His elbows were red, red against that black table. He placed the quill on the paper, that paper the guard had given him, scrunched and crumpled, from his pocket. The guard with the severe mouth, and yet, with sympathy, confusion and kindness in his eyes. He placed the quill on the paper, and wrote, his letters large, childish, unformed.

"Dear Grandfather George,

I am writing you a letter. I hope you are well. I have no mother, no father, only you alone who can help me."

The boy paused in his writing for a second, and looked at that tiny cell window, with its iron bars, at what little he could see of the night sky, and thought of his grandfather. That big, burly man with his kind hazel eyes and a head of ginger hair, like his father's, like his, the kind man who was a favourite with all the village women, and even men. The man who always had his trusty dog, Huntsman, by his side. Ah, that dog. It's name was nothing but that – a name. That fluffy little creature couldn't even hunt flies. And yet, though it seemed so kind, so reverent to his master, he had the most cunning little mind; he knew exactly when to nip one on the leg, when to steal a ham from an idle hand. He knew how to survive. Now, grandfather was probably standing at the gates of his house in his village, smoking, watching the sky, if it was clear. To his grandson, in his mind, the village sky was always clear. As if it had been scrubbed with snow.

_The candle flickered, and Vanka got glimpses of the Holy Virgin's face, so kind, so soft, looking down upon him in Her grace. And he could not help but smile back, hesitantly, the way a bashful young boy usually does, the smile beginning with a raising of the eyebrows, with an adoring glance. He turned his head back to the letter, and wrote, his letters large, childhish, unformed. _

_Dear Grandfather Konstantin Makarych! _

_I am writing you a letter. I wish you a happy Christmas, and everything from the Lord God. I have no mother, no father, only you alone are left. _

_Vanka paused in his writing for a second, and looked at the darkened window, in which he could see his candle, flickering, and thought of his grandfather, who had worked as a night guard for the Zhivariov family. That small, thin and yet incredibly agile man with an eternally laughing face and drunken eyes. That jovial man who was always joking with the village women, and whom his dog Kashtanka and his horse, Vyun, would always follow. Ah, that horse. His name was much more than just a name. "Vyun" was a reflection of this horse's agility, unmatched by any. He would always know how to steal a chicken from a man's idle hand, how to nip one on the leg. _

_Now, Konstantin Makarych was probably standing by the gates, squinting at the bright red windows of the village Church, and, sniffing his snuff. The women would sniff it, and sneeze. Kashtanka would sniff, and sneeze, and, affronted, turn her back to her master. Vyun, however, out of respect, does not sneeze, and yet moves his tail. The night is dark, the village light in its white-topped houses and smoking chimneys, and the sky always clear. Clear, bejeweled with winking stars, and one can see the milky well so well that it seems that the sky had been scrubbed with snow for Christmas. _

The boy sighed, tearing his gaze away from the bars, and returned to his paper and pen.

"A month ago, I was caught stealing bread. I had no choice, I was starving. I was dying out on the streets, where I have been since mother and father died. I had been let off then, and now they took me in again. I didn't do anything, please, Grandfather George, believe me. They just took me in, and sentenced me to hang in a week's time. I am in prison now, writing this, and I am hungry and cold. In the morning, they gave me bread. In the afternoon, I got a bowl of burnt porridge. At night, bread again. Dear Grandfather, please get me out of here. I don't want to die."

The boy wiped his wet eyes with a black fist, leaving smears of soot on his face.

"I will do anything you ask of me. If I wrong you in any way, you can beat me till I'm half dead, but please, just get me out of here. I thought of escaping, and yet I have no friends and no food, and no warm clothes – how am I to get to you?"

_Vanka sighed, tearing his gaze away from the black window, and returned to his paper and pen. _

"_Yesterday, I was dragged by my hair out of the house and into the yard, because I fell asleep while I was supposed to be minding the master's baby. Also, last week, the mistress poked a fish in my face because I didn't clean it right. They all laugh at me here, and the master beats the life out of me. And I am hungry – in the morning they give us bread, in the day, porridge, and bread again in the evening. As for the soup and tea, the masters keep it all for themselves. Dear Grandfather, do a Godly, merciful thing and take me out of here, take me home. If I stay here, I will surely die." _

_Vanka crooked his mouth, and wiped his wet eyes with his black fist. _

"_I will powder your snuff for you, I will pray to God for you, and if I do something wrong, you can beat me like a goat, if you want. I wanted to run away to the village myself, but I have no boots, and I am afraid of the cold. When I grow up, I'll provide for you, I'll feed you, I won't let anyone hurt you, and when you die I will pray for your soul just as I prayed for my mother, Pelageya." _

"London is a big town," wrote the red-headed boy, "many big houses and cabs drawn by horses, and no sheep and goats and chickens at all. And the dogs aren't mean, they're all on leashes with their masters, and quiet. They have many expensive shops here, and stalls right out in the street at St. Dunstan's market, with pears and apples and all sorts of things, only you cannot just come up and take one, you have to pay. It's not like in the village any more. Dear Grandfather, they now put up fir trees for Christmas and decorate them with all sorts of trinkets. The queen started the fashion. We'll have a tree back home next Christmas too, won't we?"

The boy sighed once again, and once again looked at the sky, the sky split by those black iron bars. If he just imagined that the sky and the bars were one, he could imagine he had an open window. A window through which he could fly away, away to his Grandfather, where he used to take him hunting, and although they never caught anything, it was such a happy time. He even remembered Agatha, that lady that had fed him sweets when no-one looked, the lady that had taught him to read, write and even dance. When his mother died, he was sent to his Grandfather, and then to London…

"Come, dear Grandfather, please come and get me out, I beg you. Have mercy on an innocent orphan like me. Save me from death, I did nothing to deserve it. My life is worse than any dog's. Say hello to Agatha, if she's still there!

I remain, your grandson.

Dear Grandfather please come!

"_Moscow is a big town. All the houses are big and rich, and there are many horses, and yet no sheep, and the dogs are not mean at all. No-one carries the star at Christmas here; there are many stalls at the market, with fish, and meat, and even guns…they probably each cost a hundred roubles! _

_Dear Grandfather, when the masters have a Christmas tree and treats, take a gilt walnut for me, and hide it in the green chest. Ask mistress Olga Ignatievna, and say, that its for Vanka." _

_Vanka sighed tremulously, and once again, stared at that window. The candle still flickered in it, the flame dancing, dancing. He remembered, how, when Grandfather went into the woods to get the Christmas fir tree, he would take Vanka with him. Sometimes, in the bitter cold, Grandfather would stand before the tree for a while, just sniffing his snuff, laughing at the shivering Vanka…those young trees, swaddled like babies in snow, stood there, motionless in their winter silence, waiting to learn which of them would die. And there, suddenly, like an arrow, a rabbit would shoot across the snow. And Grandfather would shout, "Ah, hold him, hold the devil!" _

_They would drag that felled tree to the masters' house, and then they would set about decorating it. Olga Ignatievna loved, above all else, to decorate the tree. Olga Ignatievna, Vanka's favourite. When Pelageya was still alive, Olga would feed Vanka sweets and taught him to read, write, and even dance the escadrille. Then, when Pelageya died, Vanka was sent to his Grandfather, and then to Moscow…to the shoemaker Alyakhin's workshop. _

"_Come, dear Grandfather, I beg you in the name of Christ. Have mercy on a poor orphan, being beaten every day and left hungry every night. My life is worse than any dog's…I send my respects to Alyona, cross-eyed Yegorka and the horseman, and please don't give away my harmonica! Keep it for me. _

_I remain, your grandson Ivan Zhukov, _

_Dear Grandfather please come! _

His hands shaking slightly, casting a glance at those barred skies, at the droplets of water that dripped from the stone wall to the right, the red-headed boy folded the precious letter. Folded that creased paper, the guard's paper, in four, and put it in the envelope. The guard had a kind heart.

He thought for a while, dipped the quill pen in the ink, and wrote:

To the village, for Grandfather.

Then, he scratched his head, his ginger head, and added: "George Milton".

Content with his work, he walked over to the bars, and handed the guard his letter, and thanked him. He remembered how the guard told him that letters get put into postboxes, and then are delivered all over the world in special carriages. Her Majesty's carriages.

_Vanka folded the precious letter four times, and put it in the envelope he had bought the night before for a kopeyka. After a few seconds' thought, he dipped the quill pen in the ink, and wrote: _

_To the village, for Grandfather. _

_Then, he scratched his head, thought a little more, and added: "Konstantin Makarych". _

_Happy that he hadn't been prevented from writing, he put on his hat, and, not even bothering to wear his coat, he ran out into the frosty winter air, just in his shirt…He remembered how some men from the meat stalls, whom he had questioned the night before, told him how letters are put in post boxes, and from the post boxes they are delivered all over the world in three-horse carriages - troykas - with drunken drivers and loud bells. Vanka reached the first postbox and pushed the precious letter through the slot…_

**An hour later, they both slept, one in London and the other in far-off Moscow, one on his prison bunk and the other on his little bed in the stable, both lulled by sweet hopes. They both dreamt that night. Of a hot stove in a village cottage. On the stove sat Grandfather, swinging his bare feet, reading a letter, a letter on creased paper, to the women. By the stove lies a dog, wagging his tail…**


	8. Don't go July

This is a very sad chapter and I was crying as I wrote it.

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VIII. Don't go July

In the darkness, it is easy to forget what the light looks like.

When one is used to the pain of abscence, it is hard to imagine that once, there was someone you loved at your side.

When one's conscience is long dead and silent, it is hard to learn to be human again.

And yet, we dream. We dream, even of the things we have long forgotten, and when we dream of them, we wonder whether that is the way they indeed were in reality. When one dreams of daylight in a dark cell, one wonders whether it is indeed iridescent and sparkling, flowing like golden dust from the heavens. When we dream of the one we love, do we not dream of them as perfect? And when we dream of being human again, do we not see ourselves, too, as perfect?

But the light, to a man who has not seen it for a month, will be blinding and painful; there will be no iridiscence or beauty to contemplate. And neither our beloved, nor we, are perfect. And we never dream of the nagging voice of conscience that is part of the luxury of being human.

It is certain, however, that we do not always conjure up false images, or, perhaps, opposites to reality. After all, we can only dream of what we have once seen, and if we dream of things that do not exist, our minds, in their deep, dark labyrinths, use what we have once seen to conjure up something we have not. All rules have their exceptions.

Whatever one makes of them, dreams often a necessity to us, even though we might not know it. Some men sleep just to dream. He was one of those men. Even though every dream, like a savage tiger, would tear away a part of his humanity. Dreams were his opium. His alcohol. His arsenic. His release, lethal as it was.

In his dream, and it was always one dream, it was July. Always July. July the way he remembered it, the way Julies should be, the way Julies no longer were. In his life, if one could even call it so, he would never be able to tell the month in the abscence of a calendar. In his dreams, July had pastel-yellow mornings, sun-filled daisy days and sultry velvet evenings and nights. In his dreams, his wife was always standing next to his daughter's cot, at that enormous window painted the yellow, pink and violet of the sunset sky. Her back to him. Her hair soft and long, waving down her back. And he would scramble out of his dream bed, on which the other side was not cold, and made up as it was in his life, but rumpled and warm, the pillow dented, he would scramble out of bed and run to his wife, but the more he ran, the further away she seemed to stand, always her back to him. And then, when she seemed within reach, he would reach out to touch her, and everything would turn black. He would wake up, alone in his cold bed, the sky, whether July or September he did not know, panting.

This time, however, he sat up, in his dream, sat up in his warm bed, and slowly stood up. He took a step at a time. The right, the left. The left, the right. Slowly, moving forward. The floorboards didn't creak under his feet. The right, the left. He could smell the daisies in her hair. Right, left. Left, right.

Left, right, like the hands of an old grandfather clock ticking off every second of his dream. Like the old mahogany metronome on her cherry-wood piano with its stacks of music. Chopin, Beethoven. Left, Right, like the measured notes of the moonlight sonata. Left, right, precise as a ballet dancer on pointe shoes.

He reached out his hand. A bee buzzed in the windowpane. A July bee. Buzzed melodically, like a violin. Like a cello against the evening sky. The evening sky, God's canvas, on which He had spilt all his best colours. His breath shuddering, he wrapped his arms around his wife's waist. She leaned her head onto his shoulder. His tears, his dream tears, poured down her cheek.

He breathed in sharply, and, content that the sound had not shattered the dream, spoke quietly, quietly as the first G sharp of the moonlight sonata.

«Are you real?»

He knew the answer, but he didn't want to. He pressed her closer to him, and buried his face in her hair. Her hair, dark gold in the sunset light.

«No,» she answered. Her voice was a warm wave, a caress, a melody to his ears. The word was a razor across his wrists.

«Why...why? I can't...I can't...» if only he could say more. But the words wouldn't come. If he opened his mouth, he would break down.

«I love you, and I wouldn't tell you that I was real because of that,» when she spoke, her voice split into echoes. Dream echoes. Echoes of the last July. «If I told you I was real, you will fall when you wake.»

He buried his face deeper and deeper in her hair, shaking, holding her close, whispering her name. That bee, that little violin, buzzed in the window. Lamented, asking July to stay. Don't go, July.

«I'm not real,» she repeated, in those echoes, in those July echoes. The last July. He just shook his head. «But you have someone else who is.»

«Don't go,» was all he said, and her hair, her hair where he was pressed into it, was wet.

«A friend. You have a friend.»

«Don't go. Don't go, please...I will never sleep again if you go...Don't go...»

«A friend. Maybe not a wife, not a lover, but a friend. And a child. A child to save.»

All her hair was wet now. Her hair, and her dress where he held her. He glanced at his hands. They were red. Red with blood. Or was it just the sunset light? He did not know. He had long since forgotten what the light looked like.

«Not July,» she said, «but September. You'll have September. It's colder than July. But warmer than December.» Her breath was heavy, laboured. He laid his head against her cheek. It was fevered, wet. She was shaking, her breath now shallow. Blood pooled around her collarbone. Or was it a necklace? He didn't know. He had long since forgotten what it was like to hold her close.

«Open your eyes and live. Live, cold as it is.» Was that his conscience? Or was it his wife, willing him to live? He did not know. He had long since forgotten the sound of conscience. He had long since forgotten what it was like to be human.

«Don't go, Oh God, please don't go,»

«I have to. It's nearly morning...Light is dawning...you have to let me...» an empty bottle lay at her feet. An empty bottle of arsenic.

«No, please, don't go.»

It had started raining. And yet, he was still dry. Could it rain when he was inside? He did not know. He had long since forgotten what the July rain was like. Could rain be gray? Perhaps. He did not know. He had long since forgotten what London was, once upon a July. He had long since forgotten what a fairytale was.

Flecks of gray fell onto his sleeves. Onto his hair. His hair already streaked with gray. Onto her hair. Into the blood pooled around her collarbone. Onto her fevered cheeks. Ashes. The floor beneath their feet was a grey carpet. The cradle was empty, but for an old, tattered doll. An old, tattered doll and ashes.

«Please...»

«I must,» and she said his name. His dream name. The name that he had discarded, left to rot in a dark cell. A name that was grey and fragmented as the ashes at his feet. The name that, in her voice, cracked and whispering as it was, sounded like a cello. Did she always say his name so, with her heart in every word? He did not know. He had long since forgotten the sound of music.

And as she said his name, every time she repeated it, the gray spread further and further, starting from her bloodied fingertips, ending with her neck. Her red neck, streaked with blood. He closed his eyes, and felt her ashy hands, repeating, over and over, «No.» He opened his eyes, and she crumbled. Crumbled into grey ashes, ashes which cascaded, like gray sand, from his arms and hands. She lay at his feet. Lay in grey ashes.

«Don't go,» he whispered again. Whispered into nothing.

_Don't go, July. _


	9. Pages of Lamanche

Dear readers, I apologize for the delay!

I've been having some computer trouble. I've been trying to adapt to Safari since it sort of comes with the macbook, and I've reached my last straw because I absolutely hate that browser's guts. After it started freezing in youtube, and after I tried every single thing to make it work again with no avail, I trashed it and I'm now back to old foxy! Yaaaay!

Random babble, yeah.

Enjoy the next chap! It might remind you of another one, and I hope you catch all the symbolism.

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IX. Pages of Lamanche

One day, she would think she was in Paris.

The cobbled street, the rusty back door, the click of the key as it turned in the lock, the glimmer of the neatly stacked piles of pots and pans in the pale morning light.

So she would come to the kitchen as soon as light dawned, before anyone could remind her of London. When she could make it her own little Paris in her city of ash. When she could come, wearing her beret, listening to _Champs-Elysees, _don her white apron and set to work, hoping the sky would clear for just a moment, hoping that a pale ray would spill onto the kitchen floor and make her dream more real.

Her feet lightly tapped the cobble stones. Her hand rested for a moment on the rusty handle. The key clicked in the lock. _Champs-Elysees _rang in her ears. She adjusted her beret. The piles of pots and pans glimmered in the pale morning light. No ray of sun though. No peep in the clouds. Clouds of ash, like those in paintings of the Final Judgment. Like those that probably floated over Pompeii. No sun, not yet. Not yet.

She sighed, and walked along the aisles between the kitchen benches. She plunged a hand into the pocket of her apron, and ran a finger over the binding of her book. Her book of recipes. She was so meticulous about them. She cherished that book. It was hers, and hers alone, and no-one had helped her write it. She could cook better than any man she knew. All those men, that cooked with their noses in books. Books women wrote. Men, whose wives cooked for them at home. The men she had surpassed. And not in their kitchen. In _her _kitchen.

_«Oh, Champs-Elysees»_, Paris sang into her ears. Paris, where everything was fashionable. Even begging on the streets was romantic. Paris, where men still painted with oils in the streets. Paris, where cats lapped up bowls of chilled truffle soup. Cats. She took the little capsules of Paris out of her ears.

The morning was still young enough to be silent; young enough to still sound like Paris, not London. More so since a cat was obviously clawing at the kitchen door. Smiling, she poured some milk into a bowl, white and clean, fit for truffle soup. The little aristocrat was ginger, licking his pink nose. He lapped up the milk gracefully, too gracefully for a London cat. Yes, one day she would indeed believe she was in Paris.

The bowl would have to go in the cupboard with the brooms and mops. Perhaps she could use it again, if this little aristocrat arrived again at the kitchen door. Soon, she wouldn't need _Champs-Elysees._ Soon she would be quite sure she was in Paris, even without it.

A floorboard in the broom cupboard was loose. She wouldn't have that. It wasn't perfect, be it Paris or London. Everything had to be perfect. She was a woman. If a man's kitchen wasn't perfect, it was human. If a woman's kitchen wasn't perfect, she wasn't coping. She pressed the floorboard down. The dustless, sterile floorboard. It popped back up. Irritated, she wrenched it upwards, and saw it.

Yes, one day she would think she knew she was in Paris.

It looked like a notebook, a little larger than hers. She took it in her hands and blew the dust off it. The cover was of a deep, rich red, like thick, sweet cranberry sauce. Like the center of a rare steak. She opened it on the first page. The pages were yellowing with age. The writing, handwriting, was slanting, and elegant. There were pencil drawings in the margins.

Her interest captured, she started reading. She was a little surprised that she read English, and not French. One day, she would not doubt she was in Paris. It was not in French, and it was not a diary. It was a cookbook. Though, as she read, she thought it was both. After all, she was in Paris. Her own Paris. And everything goes in Paris. Everything is fashionable.

_Mushroom chicken. _

_Ingreedients: butter; chicken breasts (from Mrs. L's secret source); mushrooms; onions, chopped; leeks (white part); for the sauce: fresh cream; sour cream; mustard (just a tsp.); mushroom stock. _

_Ben loves this one so much he eats it up in a flash, and then I watch his ears grow red! I must resist from putting too much mustard and pepper. If I do, I suppose I'll see steam coming out of his ears next. _

«Chicken stroganoff,» she said to herself, and flipped the page.

_Mushroom and walnut soup _

«She likes mushrooms,» she said to herself, and then stopped. Looked up, cursing herself internally – why did she assume it was a _she_? Surely it seemed so, but why would one always think of women when one thinks of cooking? Cooking at home. That was the patriarchal propaganda of the age. How often did one see an advertisement where a man cooked food? Never. She had never seen one, anyhow. Perhaps, in Paris, only men cooked in advertisements. Perhaps, she would never be entirely convinced she was in Paris. Sighing, she continued reading.

_We have a book of 'healthy cooking' that Mr. L got in return for some of his wife's pies. It has some good recepies, admittedly. The first time I made this chicken for Ben, he chuckled, deeply, a way that till makes my heart flutter, and said: «have a look in that book of Albert's – if this one's in there, I'll eat it. If not, I'll stick to the salad.» And he chuckled again._

_I suppose this one takes some time to get right. _

_Ingredients: dried mushrooms, butter..._

So it was a woman. She sighed. Her eyes moved over an illustration of a death-cap mushroom, black and white, its lethal colours shaded in gray. The poisonous mushroom stood bold in the middle of the page, black and white. Gray and white. Painted in London colours, in the London paint – the pencil.

Underneath, a confusion of numbers. Measurements, quantities, crossed out and edited, written and re-written.

_...Before serving, stir in some sherry. _

_As I write this, I can see Ben in the doorway. His cheeks are flushed,. As if I just put a little too much sherry...! Perhaps I did. I made this today. No talk of health books! I suppose I finally got it right... _

Her legs were starting to ache. She sat down on the floor and slumped against the wall by the broom cupboard. She flicked the page.

_I have developed an insane craving for eggs! I think Ben has had enough of the endless omelets but I cannot be sure since he never openly complains about my cooking. Well, the only time he has really complained was with the mushroom soup, and that was truly one disgusting soup I made...! _

Below that were a couple of recipes for omelets. She took note of a couple. Perhaps she could try them for breakfast. Perhaps she could rise earlier still, listening to _Champs Elysees _as the light dawned, _Champs Elysees _and the sizzling of melted butter on her pan.

The next few pages were drawings. She was a good drawer, this woman, this Ben's wife. Mushrooms, a sketch of a street, more mushrooms – always the death caps – some still life works, more mushrooms. Death caps. Always the death caps. They disturbed her for some reason, all these spotted mushrooms. Then, her eyes fell on a full page of gray. It was an immaculate sketch of a family, what seemed like a Victorian family, judging by their clothes; it was incredibly detailed and well shaded, so that it almost looked like a vintage photograph. The fair – haired woman sat with a baby on her lap, and her husband – Ben, she supposed – stood behind her, dark, handsome...kind. She turned the page. The death caps kept returning to her mind.

Another recipe, with a drawing of a violin. A violin, next to which lay a bunch of berries. She was a very good drawer, this woman, this Ben's wife. The berries were outlined in great detail, the raspberries, the blueberries...

_Cranberry sauce – _

_It's only July, but it's never too early to prepare! This one is for this Christmas! Tastes good with everything – chicken, beef, turkey, even Mrs. L's pies! _

_I imagine...the fire in the room, a table full of food, food that not only sates your hunger but also makes warmth spread through your entire being...The huge turkey in the middle, and a Christmas tree...I'll decorate it with hundreds of pretty little toys...We'll sit together, all of us, Ben, I, little Jo and even Mr. And Mrs. L. I cannot wait already...Christmas is only four months away. Four months may seem like fifteen years, and yet it is not. Time flies. _

_Today, we're going to the market, the three of us. When we come home, the fireplace will be waiting for us, warm, crackling..._

After that, the book was blank. She looked through it, looked a few times, turning over each piece of paper, but found nothing. It was blank. Blank except for one page. A page she had not come across at first since it had stuck to the previous one. The page was scribbled on, scribbled so strongly with pencil that the paper was torn in the middle. Below the grey blob, were two words:

_Forgive me _

For whatever reasons, the poison mushrooms, those pages of death caps, came to her mind.

A glimmer of gold caught her eye. The sun, the Paris sun she had waited for, had reached through the ash and now pooled in a pale oasis on the kitchen floor. And yet, she would no longer believe it was Paris. This book, belonging to someone so much like her, to a woman who loved to cook, had transported her back to London. Like a plane. Like a ship. Like the submarine Lamanche railway.

The sun glimmered, falling onto the floor of the broom cupboard. Onto the displaced floorboard. Onto something gold, gold and shiny underneath it. She pulled over to have a closer look.

Three golden figures, three handmade miniature statues of cats lay scattered on the cement below the floorboard; all of them seeming to look in different directions, disjointed, together and yet alone. A large cat, a smaller one with long eyelashes, and a very tiny kitten. A family. Or what used to be a family. All in one place, and yet oddly apart; all in one room, yet not knowing eachother. After all, an empty house could be as lonely as a full one.

She closed the notebook, placed it back under the floorboard, and replaced it. Tomorrow, she would not come to work in a beret. She would listen to the leaden city wake up, without drowning it in the sounds of Elysian fields.

Perhaps, one day, she would really go to Paris.

And then, perhaps, if she forgot today, she might remember that she wasn't in London.


	10. Manuela

X. Manuela

Sometimes, he wondered if he lived in a world of opposites, he wondered if he lived in the world he wrote about, if fiction was indeed only fiction, and if reality were really just her duller, and yet living sister.

Sometimes he wondered, when reading signs, hearing promises and stories, whether he should simply take everything he heard, saw and touched and turn it around, turn it over, in order to gain the truth.

Sometimes he wondered if the stories of the days when one could claim sanctuary in a church and be sure one would not be hurt, even in times of war, were indeed true, or part of the tales in which everything was back to front.

Sometimes he wondered whether wondering was painting his hair grey, creasing his skin and adding the heavy, burdensome years onto his backload to carry; whether it made him fifty when he was only five and twenty; whether it made him a naïve poet with nothing but words to offer the world, a ten year old in the body of an old man.

Oh yes, he did live in a world of opposites. In a world where society spoke of the petty shallowness of words and yet revered poets and writers. The poets and writers who often wrote pages about the futility of the word as a means of communication. His resolve, that bitter enemy of his that held him back, cowering in a corner of his mind, made his hand shake.

He didn't want to go in there. Where murder was mercy. Where a scream was a coloratura soprano. Where men with crosses hanging around their necks laughed and jeered at those weaker than them. Where kindness was a dip into icy water. Where sanctuary was synonymous with prison. And is _asylum_ not a synonymous with _sanctuary…? _

And yet, in this world, this world of opposites, when one said _asylum_ one did not think of _sanctuary. _He would never use that word if he wished to convey safety and protection to a reader; that word meant screams, blood, ice and fire, laughing mouths and jeering eyes, cramped rooms that smelled of death, and death itself, welcoming and welcome. Smiling and smiled at. Embracing and embraced.

Casting aside the cowering, shuddering resolve in its cold corner, he knocked on the door, loudly enough. And waited. Waited for death to hit him with a whoosh of air from behind that metal door. Were those the keeper's footsteps, or death's? Death's feet, tap, tap, walking on dirty, bloody floors; tap, tap, stepping over those who had embraced him; tap, tap, calling on those who are yet to fall into his arms.

The door swung open.

He stumbled backwards, and grabbed a protruding pipe for support; the papers in his hands, those papers of elegant calligraphy, flew up into the air like a thousand strange, white insects, and floated gracefully down, down, down…until they turned black, soaking up the puddles on the floor. Dead butterflies, with their once white, paper wings.

Death, who stood in the doorway, cast his eyes down onto the butterflies, his eyes moving slowly, right, and left, left, and right, following the young man's movements. Once in a while, they rolled upwards, and Death's jaw moved, as it he were chewing something.

_Mad people are the question mark without a question  
Mad people are like flightless birds;  
Mad people are the apostles of a God that does not want them..._

The black water seeped closer and closer to the words, to the fellow black on the once white butterfly wing. He snatched it up before it reached them. Death seemed bored. Death was a farmer, chewing a piece of straw in the doorways of an asylum. Of a sanctuary. A sanctuary from Dante's Inferno.

A shattering scream pierced his ears. The coloratura soprano. The highest note reached by any earthly singer. The scream rose to its apex, and then lowered again, rose, and fell...

_Mad people are voiceless nightingales _

_Mad people are like erased words; _

_Mad people are the serfs of a master who forgot them... _

Death turned his head lightly, and looked over his shoulder. Still bored, death turned back to him. Death had a red mark on one cheek. Death did not carry a scythe – he carried a big, black book. Bigger than his.

«I am the writer, I...»

«Ah, yerse, come on then, and shut the door behind yer. Ye don't want anything ter get out, do ye? That door's the reason ye sleep well at night.»

_I don't, _he wanted to answer, and yet, again that shaking resolve. The resolve that nearly destroyed him in front of the editor, who had scorned him, as he had probably scorned many others. This was his chance to become great. To become famous, to turn the editor's scorn to delight. The delight of a new talent.

_He had to do this story in a way it had never been done before..._

«Hey, ye listening? Come one, I 'aven't got all day!» Death spoke in a cockney accent, with his sunken blue eyes and hair as short as his stubble. Motioning to him to follow him, he retreated into the dark. Into the _sanctuary..._

The darkness engulfed him whole, at first, before the flickering torches on the walls, in some terrible parody of a medieval dungeon, illuminated the room, illuminated what he wished he could not see.

_Mad people are the foam on waves;_

_Mad people are like keys without a house;_

_Mad people are the sketches of an artist who has died... _

He walked, walked, walked through Death's bird market with its million cages, walked though seas of eyes and twisted figures, walked, wishing he were blind, he, so frightened of blindness. So frightened of an abscence of light that was the darkness.

_Mad people are unfinished books; _

_Mad people are like the footsteps of a mouse; _

_Mad people are the tears of a man who never cried..._

He walked, walked, walked, his eyes half closed, trying not to see the hands, like claws reaching out for him, still fresh. Still alive. Still sane. That was the pure genius of it; no injustice could ever be proven. For if one was not mad when he was claimed by this sanctuary, he would be a minute later. Clutching at the bars. Whispering, shouting, crying...whispering...

«_Manuela,» _whispered a voice, «_Manuela...» _

He stopped dumb.

Silence.

Suddenly, something grabbed him.

A hand.

A claw.

He tried to wrench free, and yet it was pulled further and further down, or was it up? He did not know the difference any more.

He could feel clammy breath on his ear.

A match flared.

Death stared at him.

He sighed in relief. Sighed and then laughed, laughed at the irony of it, laughed so that soon, one at a time, others started laughing, laughing in different tonalities and rhythm, in a fiendish death chorus, in a deadly bacchanalia song.

And yet, one voice could be heard above all of them, even though it was the quietest.

«_Manuela,_» it whispered. «_Manuela...» _

_«_What the 'ell do ye think yer doing, huh?» asked death in his cockney English. «I told ye, follow me!»

«_Manuela,» _again, _«Manuela...» _

_Mad people are voices in a world without ears, _

_Mad people are like the notes without a key _

_Mad people are the folk of a kingdom that is gone... _

_«Manuela,» _it whispered, «_Manuela...» _

«Well, that's the man yer looking fer.»

Death brought the match to the cage. A man sat prostrate against a wall, his hands on his legs, palms upturned. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks, too. His nose was a parrot's beak. Death's brother. Death's mortal, unfavoured brother.

_Mad people are the snowmen in the sun, _

_Man people are like pens without ink _

_Mad people are dead lovers of a wife that has moved on... _

_«Manuela,»_ said Death's brother. «_Manuela...» _

«I'm afraid you are mistaken....uh...sir. I'm afraid, I'm looking for the keeper. For Mr.-»

«Ah, who yer looking fer used ter be the keeper. I'm the keeper now, and that's 'im, son. Life's not been kind to 'im, ye see...»

«What happened to him...he worked here once, did he not?»

«Ah, ye,» said Death, still chewing on his farmer's wheat, «ye, 'e did. Then a mad girl ran away from 'ere. Beauty, she was, an 'e says she was a German, 'er name was Manuela, though I'm not sure. In fact, I'm certain that girl was no German, and 'er name was not anything like that.»

«How did she...Manuela...whoever she was...escape?» he asked, looking around, looking incredulously at those iron bars, and the hands, the claws that could not break them.

«Thing is, 'e set it up 'ere like a business – ah, wanted to make money an' all. 'E said 'ed sell the women's hair. Sectioned 'em according to hair colour. Well, then this young lad comes along,» death measured him with his sunken eyes, those sunken, electric blue firepoints, and, seemingly satisfied with what he saw, continued, «not much older 'an you, mind ye. Says 'e needs yellow hair. God bless 'is wit, he took the girl and pointed a pistol at the poor man, and took 'er away. The other women nearly killed 'im, jumped on 'im with murderous intent, they did.»

_Mad people are the glass shards of a window, _

_Mad people are like candles with no wick, _

_Mad people are the children of a man who doesn't know them..._

«'E was never the same after that, ye know. Smashed all the windows and went wild, 'e did, after that. Had to lock 'im up,» death chuckled mirthlessly, and the wheat fell out. He picked it up and continued chewing. «All 'e talks about is this girl. Manuela, Manuela. It's all you 'ere. Well, I'd better be on me way, son. Once ye done with 'im, I trust ye know yer way outta here.»

Speechless, he nodded as Death turned and left.

Death's brother stared at him intently.

There was no way telling what colour his eyes were.

They were far too sunken.

Suddenly, Death's brother sprang up, and grabbed him by the collar, staring into his eyes. Deep into his eyes, with his maddened, tormented eyes.

«Manuela,» ... «Manuela...»

For a moment, time froze.

The hand on his collar constricted.

Blood rushed to his face.

Words rushed to his mind.

«She's ok...She'll come back to you,» he said, knowing he shouldn't, knowing he was doing; here, they dunked them into icy water. Beat them and drowned them in their own blood. Now he was drowning them in false hopes.

«Manuela?» Asked Death's brother once again, staring as intently, and yet loosening his grip on the young man's shirt.

«Yes, Manuela," his writer's mind worked. Worked at pace with his fear. "With her beautiful yellow hair. Long, flowing. With her sweet eyes. With her clear mind. She will come for you,» he said quietly.

Death's brother smiled.

«I can go to her. To Manuela,» he said. The young writer gasped. Gasped at those words. Those understanding words. Common words, simple as light.

«Yes, you can go to her,» he said slowly, and the fingers dropped from his collar, «You can go to Manuela.»

And he lay down, Death's mortal brother, he lay down on the hay as if on a bed of silk and satin. As if in a home fit for a human. As if in a world fit for certainty and perfection.

«Manuela,» he said once again, «I am going to you.»

A euphoric expression took over his face for a moment. A moment of true bliss. His blueish eyelids drooped. His sunken eyes closed. He slept. Slept soundlessly, his lips moving ever so slightly.

«Ye must be the writer,» said a voice behind him. He jumped. A burly, black-haired, black eyed man stood behind him, wielding a large axe. He hoped the red stains on it weren't blood. He hoped with all his heart.

«Yes,» he said, restraining the urge to be sick.

«Hm,» snorted the man, and wiped his nose with his enormous arm. «Well, ye can't really get much from 'im. All 'e talks about it his wife.»

Startled, the young writer's eyebrows shot upward.

«His wife?»

«Yerse, Manuela. Ye'd be surprised I remember it, but since it's one of the few understandable words ye hear in this place, it's quite memorable." He laughed. Mirthlessly, like the keeper. Like Death. "She died after they 'ad been married for less than a month, years an' years ago. Caught 'er death in the streets. Consumption, I think. Turned 'im into a wasp, it did. Apparently, he never forgot 'er although one thought 'e would with all that goes on 'ere. It's a real struggle to stay sane, an' the only way ye can do that is by detaching yerself from yer life.»

«But the girl...the girl that ran away...»

«Ah, that blast that crazy lill soul, she looked like Manuela. Her hair, in any case. 'E thought it was 'er...e "realized" it was 'er...after that girl ran away. He didn't notice the resemblance before in any case. Only after she left. After she was gone. Or so I think. Perhaps he never got a good look at 'er before he went to cut 'er hair off for that young man."

The young writer clutched his papers to his heart with trembling hands. If he dropped them here, they would soak, not with grime, but with blood. Blood from that axe. Blood that cannot fade. Red on white. Piercing, bright.

«Yer better off outta here, son. Get out before we 'ave to lock yer up too.»

Unceremoniously, the man turned his back and left, leaving a trail of blood behind him, dripping, dripping from that axe.

«_Manuela,» _whispered the man in his sleep. «_Manuela...»_

_Mad people are of flesh and blood _

_Mad people are, like people are _

_When wounded; left alone, they pass away... _

_Into earth, as we all shall _

_Into air, as we shall be _

_Into the salt wind of the sea... _

As he turned to leave, he looked back at that man on his bed of hay.

The man who now was with Manuela.

His chest was still.


	11. River Ever

Sorry for the delay, dear readers!

I'm getting a little busy of late, so bear with me. :-) I had to read a bit of Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales _to try and write that poem in something close to Middle English.

Enjoy!

* * *

XI. River Ever

_Of this land fulfild of faierie _

_And of its magical compaignie _

_Is little left; and yet, bewere, _

_Of what remaines, of what ye fere _

_In solitude in the pine foreste; _

_Of Clearing Weste, if I be honeste; _

_There lieeth what in dreames ye see _

_It seems the Lord's great Charitee, _

_The waters, sauf and shallowe _

_Betwixt them, a secrete wallowes _

_A secrete greate, and fearful ..._

The book was worn, falling apart with age, the pages falling from the binding like wilted leaves off a tree...the first chapter was called, _The Ryver Evere._

She had always been fascinated by old books. They held the magic of the world beyond her windows, the world she believed to be beautiful as the pictures in the books, the books she read in the recluse of the library, that was a city in her world. And when, with a wearied eye, she returned to the town of her bedroom, she would indeed dream as though she had been there, _down there, _a place she could see only from her little concrete world, the world with beautiful towns of silk and damask, the beauty of which mocked her in the dark when she saw his dark form in the shadows of her bedroom. The world beyond, to her, was one where fire did not turn to ashes, where clouds never blocked the sun. The sun her walls blocked out.

She didn't understand why his presence in her room by dark scared her. Why his hands pressed down on her so heavily, suffocating her, when he caressed her. All she understood was that he was her father figure. She called him so. She didn't understand that he wasn't.

All she understood were the stories she lost herself in, the stories she loved and imagined to be real; the birds that could understand what she said to them and replied, albeit in their own curious, high-pitched language; the merpeople that inhabited the seas of the Earth; the fairies that whispered to her from the potted plants in the rooms of her house. Of her world. Her Earth in a universe of what she thought was beauty.

Yet, now she was not in her beloved gray city of rain and mists; now she was in another beautiful prison, beyond her town of fog and thunder, men in black top hats and cobbled roads; her new little world, world of stone walls, was in a green meadow, her father's retreat. That was what she understood. All she understood was that he was her father. Her father figure. Although it was not so.

And here she had torn apart the dust-worn wooden furniture and old bedding in search of a book to lose herself in, a story to apply to the endless green beyond the bars.

_Mystries of Goodpenny Meadowe _

The book was worn, falling apart with age, the pages falling from the binding like dead birds from the sky. She continued reading that first chapter.

_Of peace for the teareful _

_Starke will for all the weake _

_If you, in hearte's deep desire _

_That scorcheth lyke the hotteste fyr _

_Have a wyshe for whiche you praye _

_On darkeste nighte and faireste daye _

_You may, with inke of blodde your owne_

_Inscribe on paper youre deare wysh _

_It will be granted as the fysh _

_Woll carrie it to underworlde... _

He, her father figure, had left to hunt. Hunt birds. Birds that would fall from the sky like cursed rain. Like an Egyptian plague. Like a hail of green and grey, yellow and blue, red. Always red at the end.

He had gone far away. The housekeeper, Old Greg, with his ground-shaking snoring, would never notice. The pine forest was clear in view. She only had to find that little stream. The little stream that her heart clung onto like onto a lifeline. She was a clever girl, and yet she did not understand everything. For her, dull reality without elves and merpeople, shooting stars and the angels they were, existed only in her prison. She did not understand that the world she dreamed of was a place where the elves devoured people's dreams and merepeople lured seafarers into their lairs to be eaten. She did not understand that the man who killed the birds, who brought them cascading down in torrents of their own blood, turning rivers into red swirls of sickening water, was not her father figure.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she slashed her kitchen knife accross her palm, and felt the warm liquid cascade down her bare wrist. The pain she felt was that of the birds her father figure shot down. She was suffering for them. She closed her eyes and felt the blood pool in the crook of her arm. Oddly satisfied with her ritual, she dipped the quill pen in her blood, and wrote on a piece of paper from her notebook – yes, ripping it from there would spoil the binding. Perhaps the pages would be lost, lost, and perhaps found by another, read and felt the way she felt them. Perhaps. She did not understand these things, she did not think on them.

The blood was bright red and soaked through the pages, the stray drops blooming into centreless poppies on the page. She wrote, her heart in every word.

_Dear river, _

_I want to be free and I want to see my true family. _

Yes, she did not understand that he was not her father figure. And yet she understood that he was not the man to whom she owed her existence; that man, her father figure said, was a bad man, a despicable, evil criminal. He did not deserve to be called her father.

And yet she didn't understand that he intended to be nothing close to a father figure. She didn't understand that the concept could not be applied to him. Yes, she had always been vaguely grateful for his guardianship – his role to her, to her in her misunderstanding, as a father figure. And yet her true parents had always intrigued her callow mind, they were her hidden secret, her chance, that she turned to in her torment in the dark. She was too young to understand the chaos that reigned in her thoughts.

Her hand still throbbing, throbbing and pulsing red liquid, the rivers of the plagues of Egypt, all over her wrist, she ran out of the door. Old Greg slept, slept and snored. He would never understand that she had left. That the caged bird had flown out of a carelessly closed latch. That song no longer ricocheted off the windows. Off the glass bars as impenetrable as iron.

She tore accross the grass, feeling it brush her bare ankles, leaving a trail of red dew on the wilted leaves and untrampled grass blades. She ran for the pine forest, which stood in its dark silence, in its eternal peace and magic. She tore between the trees, forgetting her fear of the dark, forgetting, in the haste and heat of the moment, that this was her opportunity to live a day in a life of freedom she so coveted; and yet River Ever with its magical promise steered her to the West Clearing, where it was said the water flowed. She did understand that the book had been written a long time ago; and yet she had overheard him speak of the clearing in the forest, the pine forest, if one followed the middle path of the three that diverged at the start, where he had shot a fine rabbit. She had wept then, for that rabbit, as she had once wept for the bee she killed in her fear of being stung. Seeing it dead and contorted had sent tears to her eyes. And yet, she didn't think of that now.

She did not notice the beauty of the clearing, the gothic arches of the trees around it, or the enticing shimmer of the River Ever. It was a narrow river, almost like a stream, and yet it seemed deep, and long, snaking between the trees until it disappeared into darkness. She knelt at the river, at its still waters, and, having folded the paper, threw it into the shimmering water. She watched the moisture seep through the fibers of the paper; watched it sink below the surface; watched it until it was out of her sight.

Smiling to herself, she stood up and breathed in the fresh summer air, as she walked back along the middle path, away from River Ever. Perhaps she would visit again. Perhaps she would come and have a look at it the next time her father, her father figure, was hunting. Perhaps then she would simply sit by its banks and admire the play of light on its surface, feel the warmth of the sun breaking through clouds and foliage, paint pictures in her mind of the gothic trees and their vast green carpets.

She did not understand, however, that haste equalled mistake; that a lack of thoroughness could lead to disaster; a single broken card could fell an entire card house.

She was too young. As she slept that night, sweet hopes and dreams as her best lullaby, the book lay open still, open on her table. No, she did not understand that the last word of a story could change it entirely; that it is the last drop of poison that kills you; that the last lines of a poem are its true voice.

_But eek, good reder, be awere _

_The Ryver is not God's werke faire_

_Alas! 'Tis Guarded by the divil _

_The Ryver's magic is an evil _

_Powerful and yet with limitacioun _

_If you wysh nowe for salvacioun _

_Prey ye in good faith for thee; _

_And I woll pray, to God in alle His magestee. _

Having not read these lines, she did not pray; she hoped with all her heart that River Ever would grant her wish.

In fact, so sure was she that she could even say she knew her wish would be granted.

For once, she was right.


	12. A Farewell in A flat major

This chapter is somewhat connected to another one. I hope you notice the link! And I hope you notice when this story is set. :-)

Enjoy.

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XII. A Farewell in A flat major

Sun and frost, a fleeting rainbow, the moment just before the sun peeks over the horizon…the rarer, the more precious. The more fleeting, the more immortal. The more unique, the more common it becomes in our dreams.

The sun pressed against the windowpanes, ricocheted off the walls, off her hair as she basked in it. A bee buzzed somewhere, and perhaps if she closed her eyes and just listened to its soft drone, if she just let this rare July sun soak through her skin and become part of it, she could keep the warmth there for the rainy days. For all the other days.

She walked to the piano. Atop it lay a large ginger cat, having, no doubt, eaten its fill of pies – or, at least, what was in inside them – and made the entire instrument, its wooden body, its soul beyond the hammers and strings within it, vibrate with purring. Soft purring, like the bee's drone, the chirp of birds. The sound of the sun as it touched the ivory keys and their black counterparts.

When people asked her who her favourite composer was, she would always say it was Chopin. And yet she would never be able to say why, or even speak of him, as one finds it hard to speak of one's friends or relatives, or of personal happiness or melancholy. Chopin was a part of her. An inseparable part.

She often wished that he would come to London and play; that she would be able to see him, to assure herself he indeed was a living, breathing person. For sometimes it seemed that such music could not be written by the hand of a human being; the coarseness of everyday life splashed through puddles on the London streets and braved through wind and rain; music could not seem part of that. Not _that _kind of music.

She ran her hands over the pages of music atop the piano, next to that ginger cat. That massive ginger cat, purring in the sun. This rare July sun. If only Chopin had arrived in London instead of his executor; then, she would not have simply written asking for scores; she would have seen him play them himself, and, having come home, she would have played them, played all night, in spite of all the groaning neighbours who dreamed of mundane reality, trying to retrace the breathing soul Chopin evoked from the strokes on note paper. If not for Fontana, this waltz would probably not be on her piano now, and, judging from his reply to her, Chopin probably would not have played it in public.

Could a soul live beyond the body? While the body still lived, and breathed? Could it be that Chopin's soul rested in a piano? Perhaps that was what drew him to it; perhaps that gave him the ability to sing through hammers and strings. Perhaps that was why a piece was something personal for him.

There was her husband, calling her name, holding her little girl in his arms. She listened to the soft tone of his voice, to his gruff tenor; she looked at his hands, the beautiful hands she always imagined on ivory. The sun fell on his hair, illuminated his cheeks and made his eyes sparkle. Indeed, it was a sin to stay indoors on a day such as this.

"Remember those music notes Fontana sent me?" She ran her fingers over the music. "I've always wondered what this waltz would sound like in the sun…in the July sun."

"I promise you that one day he will play for you," he said, his tenor voice like an old cello, one that creaked a little and yet was as rich in sound as any.

She imagined herself, sitting next to her husband in the concert room, watching Chopin's long fingers run over the keys. Listening to every cadence, every note, every breath between phrases. She sat down at the piano, and placed her fourth finger on the E flat.

The first bar. The sun seemed to make her hands glow. She could almost see that little ginger kitten, the one that had ever since grown into this tiger that purred in the sun, grown into this regular customer at the pie shop, that had seemed so helpless, drenched and mewling on the edge of the street. The little kitten whom not she alone had noticed; whom a young man with deep, warm eyes had also seen. He had picked it up, uncaring about the dirt and grime on its tiny paws, and warmed it in his arms. And when she had asked him to give it to her, his eyes had warmed and his hand brushed hers as he handed her the little shivering kitten.

The second bar, the third bar, the melody in major, seemingly warm and content, and yet it was the warmth and contentment of the last rays of the sun before it sunk below the horizon. The warmth and happiness of a last glimpse of someone's face; someone's dearly missed, and loved face. She could almost feel the trepidation in her heart, as she searched for him among the dancers, colourful like an exotic carnival. She had never been one for noisy social gatherings, for drunken merrymaking or dancing, and yet she had come for him. And she would have noticed him, even if there were a thousand, even a million people dancing there. She would have seen his warm eyes among a million grey ones; she would have heard his cello voice among a million simpering violins.

The fourth bar, the fifth, the sixth…the rapid ascension of notes to the G flat…a fast run, like a sharp intake of breath, the whoop of a heart…and yet, it was not the intake of breath at the sight of something beautiful. It was an intake of breath at a feeling of hope. A hope when everything else seemed lost…She could almost hear the beating of her heart in her ears at night, as he pulled the strings of her corset. She could see the Goosebumps rise where he touched her.

Now, the music became faster, made mazurka-like leaps, and the music was happy – if it had a face it would have been smiling; it sounded like the peal of laughter, the peal of wedding bells in the morning light of a cloudless sky. And yet, it was the happiness of memories of bright days, as one remembered them while it rained incessantly beyond the window. The music was joyous, but it was the joy of a happy story told by a lonely old man. She could hear her father's blessing, and the church bells where she was married. She could hear the cry of her newborn daughter.

As the chords ascended, faster and faster, simple and yet promising something at their end, she remembered herself walking along a dark forest path, wondering if she would ever find the light, if she would ever find her way out to the moonlit meadow,she remembered herself walking, her heart beating more and more wildly with every step, rattling against her ribcage, her breath fast and shallow. She remembered herself bumping into trees and crying out at every rustle. She thought she was going mad when she thought she heard voices calling her name. And then, she saw the moonlight. A clear white drop in the black forest. And she had run, tearing through the trees, allowing the bats fly past her and the voices turn into the whoosh of the wind in her long, tousled hair. The chords ascended, her feet tapped the ground beneath them and the wind whistled in her ears, and as the trees opened into a clearing, hands swept her up and twirled her around, and she didn't need the cliched shine of the moon on water, for she had his eyes, his warm eyes, that glowed even in the darkness. As she remembered herself bursting out of the woods, the last note at the very top hang quietly in the air. The last note after a passage did not have to be loud. The last note did not have to be like a fanfare. The last note in a series of ascending, hopeful chords did not have to be loud, but it could also be quiet, like a soft light behind a cloud. And yet, it was not the soft light after the rain. It was the last light before the storm came.

She could see herself sitting in the concert hall as the choir sang of joy. She could feel his hand on hers, soft and warm, his cello voice joking about the German language, her own supplying a translation. As the music progressed, she saw herself running down a grassy lawn, hand in hand, the speed sending exhilaration through her blood; she could see her daughter's first birthday. She saw herself playing in front of a room of people, and she would always, always pick out his face first, his warm eyes and loving smile. She heard the last chord of the waltz, and it was a major chord, and on its own it would seem happy, and yet it was the happiness of knowing the one you loved would be happy, even if you couldn't ever be with him.

She had not noticed how her entire life with the man that now stood at her shoulder had just passed before her eyes. She put her hands on her lap, wondering. Did that not happen before death? Yes, and indeed, was this not a farewell waltz?

She stood up and took him by the hand. When they returned from the market, there would be a fire, crackling and warm, and the large ginger cat would be purring, curled up on the rug, bringing back memories of a sunny July day…


	13. Faith House

Hello there!

I have had 2 exams in a row so I have not been able to update. Now I'm kind of back on track and eagerly awaiting your reviews!

I wonder if you guess whose POV this one is from. This was a disturbing chapter for me to write..

Enjoy!

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XIII. Faith House

The spoon clattered against her plate, over and over, in the overwhelming silence. The silence and the darkness of night. The clock ticked. The curtains softly brushed the windowpanes as the wind tossed them. The mirror rattled, not quite fastened, against the wall. The light of the stars in the moonless night fell on the house. The dust settled on long since empty chairs, on long since unread books, on long since untouched shoulders, on long since dead consciences.

On the wall, there were once photos. Many photos, of a couple, of a boy, of her. Now there were only rusty iron nails sticking out of the white like scrawny tree stumps in a desert.

And the curtains, oh the curtains. They were once blue, as the sky was, at least in her dreams, for she never dreamed of London. Blue as the eyes of the young boy, the way she wanted to always remember him, that would run up to her, his mother, and ask to be embraced. How many times had she embraced him? She could not count, she would not count: a mother could not measure her affection. How many times did he embrace her? She had not counted them first, but then, when she had started to, she could fit them all on one hand.

She had not wanted to marry her husband. His picture was the first that she took down from that white wall, that now barren white wasteland with crooked nails. They had not been a love match and she had been forced into the union – the union that was like a wasteland of her life, that wasteland of white and crooked nails upon which she had impaled her youth.

She had loved, and still loved her son. Her son that was the spitting image of her husband, that man who, she had always suspected, raided pockets by day and drank the money away by night. He had the same eyes, the same face…and the same ambitions. The same way of achieving them. And yet, she loved him, and where she inwardly cursed her husband, she tried to find justifications for her son in the same deeds.

As a child he was small, scrawny, nicknamed _the rodent_ by the local children; and yet, he had found solace in service and a voice in blindly repeating after those who were stronger than him. That way he had power, that way the others feared whom they now called _the rat, _cunning and insidious as he seemed beneath his long-toothed smile and overt politeness.

She had shed many a tear for her son. She had wept when he was born, for she had seen his father in him, his father who then beat her, as she lay in the childbed, for the child being too small. _Small and scrawny, they all are, _he would say, as the blows rained down, one after the other,_ so that's what ye give me, two born dead, and this one, alive but what use is he, eh? Look at'im, look at 'im, he looks more dead 'an the previous two though 'es alive! Small and scrawny… _

If she had been strong enough to retort, she would have added, _just like you. _But it was not the child's fault. Oh, all those times she had taken the blows the boy would have taken. All the times she lay bleeding and her son would watch, first horrified, and later, as the years progressed, he would smile sardonically. _  
_

Oh, she had wept many times for her son. Then, when he was shunned by the children. When he brought home a stolen pocket watch with pride to show his mother. When he, her son, was nicknamed, _that rodent. _

Her husband got his money by theft, she knew. Beautiful as she had been, her beauty had died the day she entered his house. Her beauty was left to rot, impaled, upon those rusty nails which held their family portraits. Her beauty and affection that had meant nothing to her father, that her dead mother never saw. The beauty and affection that reminded her father of things he wanted to forget, a face and a voice he wanted to forget. And he, her husband, he was rich. His cockney accent did not speak of it, but yes, he was rich, rich enough to marry a daughter you don't want off to; marry her off before you go insane with memories of her mother. Marry her off before she even knew what love was. For her, love was just as fictional as a princess and a dragon.

Yes, her husband stole. Stole for someone more important than him. He found solace in service. A voice in blindly repeating after those who were stronger than him. The best way to feel important is to lose oneself in the shadow of the greater.

And she had wept when her son first started coming home late and dismissing her with no more than a single word, like his father did. Always, with that simpering smile, feigned affection and politeness. Sometimes, she wept and prayed to the Lord to let her son stop pretending; to let him stab her, put a pistol to her worn head, anything, if he hated her so, anything but pretence.

And yet, when she had recently read of his disappearance in the papers, she had not wept. She had smiled, her mind too tired for sorrow. Perhaps he had had enough of London life. Perhaps he had finally decided to disappear, as romantics loved to do, as it was fashionable, to disappear for a year or two. Perhaps, he had tired of corruption, and of serving as an occasional sidekick. Perhaps he had remembered her. Perhaps he would come to her soon.

Oh, those days! How would he remember her? A young woman, bruised and yet beautiful, hands soft and looking adoringly at her son, who looked at her, she had thought, with the same adoration. Or would he expect to find her an old woman? Wrinkled and in black. Wrinkled, she was, yes, but black? No, she had never worn black for her husband.

She smiled, and even laughed, knowing she would forgive him when he came. Every tale of a return is that of the Prodigal son. One did not have to be the man from the Gospel of Luke to forgive one's son.

Perhaps he had remembered the days when their house was a place of fairytales. A place where he believed in Saint Nicholas in a flying carriage, who gave presents to all the good children; a place where he believed a mother's arms meant nothing could hurt him. A place where he would wake in the middle of the night to see if he could summon the spirit of winter as he stood barefoot in the snow, and his mother slept. A place where he believed in God.

She sat there at the table, watching the little particles swirl to the bottom of her soup. In the spoon was her reflection, one she knew by heart and yet wished to forget, the drab cheeks, the dull eyes and hair. Perhaps, when he came back, the spark would come back. She could believe everything now, in the house where her son once played under the Christmas tree.

_Tap, tap. _

_Tap, tap, tap_.

She smiled, smiled from the heart and felt as though the years of solitude and torment had been washed away in a mere second; if she looked in the mirror, she would see that spark in her eyes that she thought was long gone. Her son had come home. She knew it. It was him.

She walked along the corridor where her son had turned on his heel and left all those years ago, without a backward glance. She would forgive him. Now, now everything would be fine. She walked to the door through which he had passed, never to be seen again. She would forgive him. Everything would be the way it was before. She placed her hand on the cool handle, the handle of a cheap yellow colour, the same colour as that stolen pocket watch. She would forgive him. Every wall would be breached between them, and she would finally embrace him and be embraced back.

She opened the door.

The night was silent, the moon hiding behind the clouds. The stars twinkled, benign and distant. The world beyong the door was empty; empty except for a large, pale moth beating itself against the door frame, over and over. Watching it beating itself relentlessly against the wooden panel, she was about to think that dreams ended beyond the threshold of her house. She was about to collapse on the doorstep. She was about to slam the door on the world beyond it, but the moth, so large and pale, like the moon, descended and hovered before her eyes. Slowly, so unnaturally slowly, it moved forward, away from the house. Slowly, as if beckoning her to follow it.

She brushed her hand against the door, and followed the great white moth. The door she left open, and as it was open, and the wind, that wind that had ruffled the silent curtains of her home, blew in, sending all the dust that had settled there in the intervening years swirling in torrents above the floor.

She could have sworn that more than once the moth had turned and looked at her, still in the air, as if waiting for her to catch up with it. She followed it, and as she did, she noticed that the streets were earily silent, sultry and breathless, and that the pale orange light spotting the cobbled roads could not shine at night, weak as it was. She noticed that the carriage horses were gone, and the reins lay limply on the ground. She noticed the that the air smelled of cinammon, cinammon and nutmeg, and a crackling fire...she smelled and inhaled, as she followed the moth, slowly, slowly, until the road passed the last house and the air was fresh with freedom.

Before her, she saw a dawn breaking on the horizon, the light washing over the cobbled roads and motionless carriages. The sunrise beyond the empty, silent houses and lone streets. As she squinted into the distance, she saw the road disappear into a misty haze of pale orange; and on that road that seemed to drown in pale light, a figure materialized.

Small, scrawny, a Christmas present in his hand.

_Forgive me, mama, _he whispered.

The next morning, after the next door neighbour knocked several times without an answer, they would break into her home and find her motionless, having died in her sleep at the dinner table.

Clutched in her rigid hand was a pocket watch.

A cheap yellow pocket watch.


	14. On the Nature of Sea Foam

I must admit I love this chapter.

I hope you do too!

Review! Pretty please with a cherry on top :-)

XIV. On the Nature of Sea Foam

Her hair pooled around her in auburn ripples; the salt water burned her bleeding feet. She watched the blood billow up towards the surface, spreading over the water like a Chinese tea flower, and dug her nails into her palms. Breathing heavily, she followed the patterns of her hair that spilled onto the road where she sat, her feet in the water, burning, burning. Her nails digging into her palms, deeper, deeper.

She had once heard _him_ say that men often do extraordinary things, things that even they themselves are unable to explain. Perhaps, as she now realised, that meant her. He had looked after her after he had found her, weak and nearly drowned, sprawled on wet gravel. He had promised her that she could live in a house of her very own, near the sea, – a beautiful home that even _she _would feel at home in, in which she had that sense of belonging she thought she had long lost. It would be small, he said, and yet it would be filled with remnants of sea voyages and the smell of seawater. Perhaps it was an extraordinary thing for him to look after her, to be so kind and solicitous, even as she was unable to repay him with anything except the fierce, silent love in her heart; the kind of love that is given by fate; the kind of love that makes all pain seem insignificant. It even made death seem like a petty enemy to her, though she knew she was mistaken.

Now, she, too, was doing an extraordinary thing she could not explain for herself. What was she doing? Was it not men who came to think near the sea, because it was so dark and foreign to them, just like this world beneath a starry orb was to her? Was it not men who sought solace in the unknown, for they knew that they would once know it, after they died? After they had gained an immortal soul? Why then, was she sitting near the breakwater, near what she had so willingly tired of and left behind.

They would travel to a place called Plymouth soon, and she wondered what it would look like there. Physical pain and unimportant, trivial thoughts were good remedies for heartache. It was a funny word, _«Plymouth»..._she wished she could say it aloud. She wished she could tell him she loved him, that she wanted him to choose her instead of his wife of a two days; the woman he had married, the woman he would live with in Plymouth...that it was her, and not that woman who saved him from certain death. And yet, she could not. That was the price she had paid.

Digging her nails into her palms, digging, digging, she saw the man, the man she loved, and his wife, board the ship. As the wife disappeared into the entrance, her love waved at her, beckoning her. _Come on, _he mouthed. If she had been stronger, she would have resisted. If she had been as strong as she had been a few days ago, when she sacrificed everything – three centuries of life, her voice, her family, for him – she would have refused to come. And yet, one cannot command the heart; love worked in its own, mysterious ways and made her walk, with each excruciating step coming closer to the ship. Closer to him. So close, so far. Inches away from eachother, and yet miles apart.

As she walked to the ship, another couple entered it. The man was a sailor, young and attractive in a beardless, innocent way; and the woman that was clinging onto his arm, was, to her surprise, wearing what she had learned were men's clothes – most women wore dresses, and elegant little hands adorned with dried flowers they had torn from the ground, and yet this lady wore no dress, but a two-piece with a jacket and trousers, and a tweed cap she had seen London boys wear. Her hair was fair, yellowish, a few locks hanging out from under the cap. She smiled at the girl. She was different, but loved nevertheless. They, too, disappeared, arm in arm, into the belly of the ship. The _Bountiful. _

That night was one of the darkest of her life, even with the stars that twinkled at her, eternally alive and uncaring, from that dark expanse above the sea that men called the _sky. _She had no will to go and join the celebrations, thought she should have, logically; should one not enjoy as fully as possible the last day of one's existence?

«Sister, sister!» She did not react at first, but continued staring at those stars, counting her breaths. Had the air always been that fresh? Had the stars always been so bright? Had the noise of a ship cutting sea water ever sounded like music? And yet, the second time, the calls drew her attention back to the present. «Hark, it's us, your sisters! We've heard all about what happened! Look! Do you see this knife? It's magic! The Witch gave it to us in exchange for our hair. Take it! Kill him before dawn, and you will become the way you were again and forget all your troubles!" Indeed, she could see one of her sisters' wet hands, reaching out a knife to her, a shining, silver knife, its blade glinting unnaturally in the starlight. She grasped it tightly in her hands, pressed it to her chest, breathing heavily. All she had to do was kill him while he slept with his bride.

As her sisters once again disappeared into the darkness beneath, she clutched the knife, a wave of hatred coursing through her veins. His kindness had been superficial nobility, oh yes. A charity to please those around him, to make him seem a good example of a man of high society, to make him appear like a knight in shining armour. Yes, he thought would take her to Plymouth, and she would live there, in a house by the beach; he thought she would have all she asked for and wanted; he thought that she would never go hungry, never be miserable. He would have granted any wish of hers, he would have done anything for her, like a servant for a master. And yet that would be done just like that – coldly, professionally, cruelly in a friendly manner. And if he found out the truth, somehow, he would believe it to be madness, for that was the way men were; they believed nothing that did not agree to what their eyes had seen in their lifetime.

As she prepared to stand, she heard footsteps approach behind her. She clutched the sword close to her heart. A thousand thoughts, like fireworks, rushed through her mind. Should she kill him? Should she not? Should she turn? Should she stay the way she was? Should she just dive into the waves now and have this over and done with?

There was no- one to kill, alas. She heard a voice. And yet it was not his voice. It was another, saying a name, sounding the way she wanted his voice to sound when he spoke to her. It was tender, loving. It came from the heart. When _he _spoke to her, his voice was warm, friendly, perhaps a little tinged with sadness. That detached amicability, that sweet familiarity that often shone through in conversations between two male friends, between children. The memory of it sent another wave of hatred, hot and bitter, coursing through her veins.

The man was proposing to the woman. It was the sailor, the sailor and his sweet lady who was dressed like a London boy. She perked her ears up and listened in. He said her name, a pretty, soft name, one she could not pronounce. What did her own voice even sound like? She had forgotten, forgotten the sound of her own words and songs, songs that had intoxicated everyone with their beauty. Her voice, a price to pay for an unrequited love.

She turned her head slightly. He was kneeling before her on one knee. Was everyone happy, but her?

The woman, the woman in men's clothes, gasped.

«I...will you be my wife?» Hesitating, obviously nervous, he reached up and took her hand. Even in the darkness of the night, she could see the woman's cheeks flush.

She opened her mouth to speak, but a sharp intake of breath from the man stopped her.

«I promise you, I promise that now we're free, and you're safe. No matter what you said to me back then, I still promise you that once we disembark in Plymouth, all our dreams will come true. I hope so. We will be free of all those ghosts, of those shadows of London.» The woman seemed to teeter on the edge of speech, but the young man spoke again. Breathless. Breathless with new love, as she once had been. «And even if you say you do not love me, even if you don't agree, I will still love you and I will always be there if you want to come back. I want you to be happy.»

«You promise me I'll be happy? As much as I want to believe that...»

«I promise, I promise and swear to you, the ghosts will be gone forever.»

«And the darkness?» The woman's voice was still frightened, but there was hope there. Looking at her, her hair now long and straying in the hair, she could imagine her, sitting at a window, wishing upon a star...

«The darkness is only but an absence of light...»

She could see that light in her face. It illuminated her youthful features, brightened her eyes. From somewhere within the bowels of the ship, she could hear a violin playing. The violin was a woman, in shape, and in sound. And this one was a song of happiness. It was for the sailor and his girl. For her love and his bride. But not for her, no.

It was silent for a while, except for the sound of the violin.

«Yes,» she said quietly. In her mind, she commended the girl again. She was different; she was brave; she did not tarry. She had her chance and she took it. Perhaps she loved him, surely she did, she could see it in that light, that light that illuminated her face when he spoke to her. «I...I love you too.»

She turned away, because she did not want to see them kiss. She did not want to see in them a future she would never have, she did not want to spoil the moment with her miserable presence by crying, for she would cry if she saw love, affection, true affection, right before her eyes.

When she turned, they had gone, now engaged, betrothed to each other, bound by happiness.

She got up and walked slowly to the staircase that would lead to the rooms below, the rooms where _he _slept, embracing the woman that she would never be. The dark corridor swayed with the ship, and the knife, this magic knife still shone, even if the stars were long gone. She did not have much time left. She had to kill him before sunrise. He deserved it. And she did not deserve the fate she would have if she failed to plunge the knife into his heart.

The door creaked as she opened it.

With baited breath, she waited for him to wake up. All the hatred, every bit of it did not allow her to wish for him to suffer. Yes, she wanted him dead. Did she? Of course she did! Had he not ruined her life?

She walked over to the bed. His features were calm, relaxed. Oh, why was he so beautiful, and even more so in sleep? Even in the darkness she could see the sheen of his copper – coloured hair, the paleness of his lips; she could imagine the green of his eyes, the sound of his voice, as he breathed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Rising, and falling.

Did she hate him? No. Of course she didn't. In her mind, she could hear the sailor's words: _and even if you say you do not love me, even if you don't agree, I will still love you and I will always be there if you want to come back. I want you to be happy_.

She stowed the knife away in the folds of her dress, and bent down silently to kiss him. She could not touch his forehead with her lips, for he could wake up, and the tender moment that needed no words or actions, would be ruined. She soundlessly kissed the air above his sleeping head, and mouthed a soundless farewell. A farewell without a voice or witness. A true farewell. She had mouthed _fairwell _and not _goodbye, _for _goodbye _sounded shallow and meant nothing; she did not want to simply say goodbye. She loved him and wanted him to be happy. To be well. And so she fared him well. _Farewell, my love. _And she hoped he would remember her as he looked upon the sea foam below the ship. She hoped that, when he touched the frothing water, he would remember the feel of her hair.

She ran back onto the deck, forgetting the pain in her legs, shedding the hurt like old scales. As she watched the sky grow lighter, she remembered the sound of a song _he _had played for her, once, on the piano. The song she would take with herself as she turned to foam on the waves. The song the sea winds would howl, with all her pain, as they skimmed the frothy water. Bach, it was. _His very firt prelude. «Isn't it beautiful?»_ he had said, and she had smiled, for yes, it was beautiful. As beautiful as the dawn, which was breaking, so ruthless and yet so welcomed by her. She would be happy that she had just had the luck to love such a person as him. Him, who slept now, with his wife.

As the sky lightened to a salmon pink, as the first young ray of gold was about to peek over the horizon, she threw the knife into the sea. She inhaled the smell of life, felt the deck beneath her feat, replayed his voice for a last time in her mind, and dived into the waves, ready to turn into the foam of the sea from whence she had come, and vanish.

The cold water lapped at her as she watched the first ray of sun skim the waves, skim the sea foam she would soon become. The water subsided, and she felt herself lifted into the air above the sea. The sea that now rippled in the early morning breeze, and she heard what she thought she should not hear any more. Was she not gone? Or did these voices mean she was still alive?

"Who are you?" she asked, surprised to find her voice was back. _Perhaps death is not so bad after all..._ "Where am I?"

"You're with us in the sky. We are daughters of the air! We have no soul as men do, but our task is to help them. Your good heart gave you a new life, for we take amongst us only those who have shown noble kindness and selflessness to men, and you have done so twice!"

Glowing in the early morning light, she looked down over the sea towards the Bountiful, and felt in her eyes. The daughters of the air whispered to her: "Look! The earth flowers are waiting for our tears to turn into the morning dew! Come along with us ..."


	15. Vesper for a Swan

XV. Vesper for a swan

It would be evening when she arrived.

She wouldn't tell him. She wouldn't tell him because he wouldn't care. Perhaps he would even be happy for her day-long outing. He would certainly be happy, because solitude was his religion.

She didn't want to admit to herself that she knew why; she didn't want to acknowledge that in the abscence of those you love, anyone else's company is poison. Even another's love becomes poison. Had love ever been described as poison? Some poets said love was like a ray of light in the darkness. Like a splash of water on parched land. Like the first snowdrop of the last winter days. She had never read about love being called poison. Poetry lied as it always did.

So why did he willingly shrink from the light? Like a mole, preferring the darkness. Preferring parched land. Could man live on memories alone? Could man live by tormenting himself every second? Could man live and never see the sun? _Perhaps, _she thought, _Perhaps. If he were blind. A mole is blind, he doesn't know that, if he had eyes, he could bask in the sunlight. _But could he not feel its warmth on his skin?

The carriage rattled on her way to the London outskirts. In a moment of bravery, she thought she'd go to Brighton, to the sea. In that moment, she had thought she'd ask him to come, too, and she had even thought of the words that would make them go. And yet, as usual, the bravery and resolve drained with the darkness of night; daylight sobered her: she wouldn't be able to persuade him. And she would never go there alone. It would be too painful.

The promise of a house by the sea seemed so far away, and yet...how had he reacted when she had said she wanted to retreat with him, to somewhere warmer? Consumed, as always, by his own thoughts of revenge, he had muttered a consent. And yet, one minute he was cold, the other he was hot, and perhaps the next moment he would say he had never agreed to it.

She knew where to ask for the carriage to be stopped. Perhaps, as close as she would ever get to a holiday by the sea was sitting by a pond in the London outskirts. Perhaps, the wet ground caking her widow's dress would be a fair equivalent of the sand she imagined cascading off her skirts in sheets. Perhaps she could talk to the marshes, and as they moved, she would imagine that there was someone there, next to her.

But no, she would not be upset that she wasn't on Brighton Beach, but on an unnamed stretch of land in front of a shallow pond. It was better than nothing. It was good enough. And good enough was good enough for her.

She sat by the marshes, on the wet ground before the pond, and listened to everything, everything that reminded her that what she wanted to hear, whom she wanted to talk to and recieve lengthy answers, like they did in the novels she had never had any patience for, wasn't here. She listened to idle, uninteresting birdsong. To the leaves rustling.

To the footsteps. The footsteps she tried to ignore, because she knew they were not his.

«Yer not supposed te sit her, ma'am. Ye'd better leave.»

He was a typical shepherd boy. Reddish – brown hair sticking up at the very top of his head, freckled skin, open – hearted brown eyes, a wide smile. Many women would even consider this young man handsome. He was attractive, in a young, innocent way. She wished she could lay her hands on his head and let him steal away her infatuation. For it was pointless, like a letter without an answer.

Sometimes, she looked at the black-framed picture on the wall of her shop, and imagined her dead husband speaking to her, his moustache ruffling, scratching his bald head. _Some letters are not meant to be answered. You keep thinking that the letter hasn't reached its address. But think, maybe it has. Maybe it has, but the one to whom you addressed it is unable to answer, although he wants to. Perhaps he doesn't even want to. _And she, brushing off the voice of reason, would think to herself, _If you say that again, I swear I will take that damned portrait of yours down. In an instant, don't you doubt. _

«I don't think there's anything wrong with me sitting here, love,» she said, leaving her lips slightly parted, looking at him with what she felt was an appealing expression. It was a look she almost permanently wore around _him. _

The shepherd looked a little disconcerted.

«Well, I...I mean...I 'ave my sheep 'ere.»

«Well, they're not with ye now, hm?» She fluttered her eyelashes. The young boy smiled. Why did she appeal so to young men? She would bet any money on this young shepherd being yet another poor motherless boy. Of course he saw a mother in her. They would all love her as anything, as a mother, a sister, an aunt, a friend...they would use friendly words and put their arms around her shoulders, when she wanted only _his _hands, and on her waist.

He sat down next to her, a piece of straw in his mouth. Did all shepherds chew straw? They did in the petty novels she had never had any patience for.

Not bent on talking more than this shepherd boy, she turned to gaze at the water.

She gasped.

Two swans swam into view, right out of the marshes, one black and the other white, so beautifully close to each other, so beautifully together. She traced the elegant curve of their necks, the graceful symmetry of the feathers, the glimmering black eyes, the soft streaks they left in the water as they swam past, with her eyes.

She turned around, to the shepherd, expecting him to be watching the swans with the same rapture, the same adoration, perhaps even the same envy - though she wouldn't admit it to herself - as she did, for he was a man of nature. A man of pastures and waters. A man so young, with his entire life shining in front of him. She had not expected his expression to be that of a grown man. To be that similar to _his _as he brooded, gazing out of the window.

«Somethin troublin ye son?» She asked, looking at him the way she would look at a child.

He sighed, running a hand through his auburn hair, still sucking on the piece of straw. His other hand clenched and unclenched on his lap.

«I shouldn't bother ye with me problems, ma'am,» he said, though he did not say it dismissively.

«Don't be silly, son,» she said, and she thought her voice sounded rather distant, as if in reality she were thinking of something different.

He sighed.

«Beautiful, ain't they?» she said, nodding towards the swans. Now, her voice sounded encouraging, as if in reality she wanted him to answer something else.

He frowned, and stared down at the ground, wrinkling his forehead and absently picking at the loose, wet soil, still chewing his straw.

«They only know one love, ye know? If one o' them dies,» he said, gesturing at the white swan, that swam, so close, to the black swan, «the other will be alone forever. In mournin' forever.»

She hadn't known that. And, perhaps, she wished she hadn't; they were only animals, true, but she had no patience for constancy. She had no understanding for those who didn't move on. It was disconcerting to learn that this constancy and attachment she had found so unnatural was actually natural. When the shepherd boy spoke again, his voice was as grown and mature as his expression, his face, creased with a deep frown.

«I love someone like that. I've loved her fer years. She's old enough to be me mother, but I don't care. I've loved 'er since I met 'er...when she was thirty. She means the world to me, if only she'd understand. She's happily married. Thinks I see 'er as a mother, and its not a surprise, fer an orphan...» she would have won a large sum of money if she had betted on his parentlessness. «It's painful, but I know I must let 'er be 'appy. I might die without 'er, an mind yeh I need no young fair maid, only her – but I'll die happiest if I know she's 'appy too.»

There was a startled silence. She had no right to judge him for his strange love. As if one could read of a love like hers in the novels she had no patience for.

"She's so kind to me," he continued, his voice nearly tearful, "every time I come round, she lets me eat at 'er table, gives me buns and cakes to take 'ome with me. Thinks I come round for 'er bakin'...when really, all I want is a glimpse of 'er...just a glimpse, and its enough..." he broke off abruptly, turning his head to her. His cheeks grew red, and his eyes looked to the ground. "I'm sorry," he said, hesitantly. Hesitantly, and quietly..."I shouldn' ave."

«Ye should fight fer 'er, son,» she said. She didn't care for his embarassment. The idea of leaving _him,_ even if he was unhappy by her side, was unbearable.

He stared at her, long and hard. «I don't know why I love 'er so, ma'am, but I won't make 'er unhappy. If I need to, I'll-» he straightened out, grabbing his shirt with his fists, «tie meself up and stop meself from doing something to harm 'er happiness, because sometimes I...» his voice sounded choked up. «I 'ave dark thoughts.»

_Who doesn't, _she thought.

"Don't worry, son, it's all right," she said. Her hand twitched to pat him on the shoulder, and yet, she held back; she had no reason to prolong this pointless conversation; she had nothing to do here. Nothing more. She had better go back and tell the carriage man to take her back early. Nothing was keeping her here now. She had sought for escape; for freedom from what was tormenting her; she had sought peace; she had found the opposite – a young man who had, just like her, sent a letter and recieved no answer. A young man on the verge of tears. A young man who, like her, yearned for escape, freedom, peace.

She stood up, muttered something curt and polite about being late and having to leave. She did not pause to look back, for she was filled with newfound zeal. Her heart beat violently against her ribs; the shepherd boy, still sitting there, at the bank of the river, did not have what he desired because he was too weak to take action. Inside her, she felt sure _she, _resilient and strong as she found herself, would gain _his _heart, whatever the price.

She did not understand that it was impossible.

She did not understand that he was a not a mole who willingly shrank from sunlight.

He was a swan.

As she walked away, the two swans, black and white, swam towards eachother and pressed their beautiful heads together, forming a heart with their slender necks.

The river would be their home, their sanctuary. And yet, time has never been sentient. Years later, in the middle of winter, when untrodden snow lay on the riverbank, he would find the white swan lifeless, her beautiful neck sprawled on the snow, white on white, barely distinguishable if not for the pattern of her beak. The beak he nuzzled repeatedly, trying to revive her, flapping his wings and twisting his neck, mute as he was.

And if one came by the lake, be it at dawn, or dusk, one would see the black swan circle the pond with a bowed head, his lone reflection lost in the still waters.

Half a year later, the lake would be deserted. Deserted, but for two feathers, floating together.

Two feathers.

One black, one white.


	16. Dunkirk 1940

Dear Readers, happy 9th of May (WW2 Victory Day) I think in Europe you celebrate on the 8th because of the time zone, but in Russia we celebrate on the 9th.

The original story for this was set in Leningrad; I changed it to Dunkirk for the English version.

Enjoy!

XI. Dunkirk 1940

When he had been small, he had believed that his mother knew everything. Later, when he had grown a little, he thought his mother knew nothing at all. And yet now, he wished he had listened to her.

When he had been small, his mother had taught him a good lesson he remembered only now, like an old letter one accidentally finds in a dusty drawer. While building cardhouses, his mother had taught him that one can spend hours building it, but just a second blowing. Blowing down all those neatly stacked ones and twos, eights and nines, kings and queens and aces.

Humanity could have spent an eternity building cathedrals and works of art, architecture and science; humanity could have spent centuries marking their presence on this planet. Humanity could have spent millenia playing God on Earth. And yet, now, in one puff of a candle, they played God again, on the planet that now became the devil's playground.

Nothing in these gray dunes by the coast, in the ruins and fallen ships, in the rubble that once marked time, spoke of human presence. Spoke of the history of the Old World. Nothing spoke of a human footprint on the earth that had seen so much. A few years destroyed a century. A millenium in a few days. An eternity in a moment.

The bay was crowded. Everyone was thrown together in a big heap, soldiers, civillians, officers, horses, ships, the dead, the alive, the inanimate. A navy officer, with his fancy British uniform and gold epaulettes, was shouting about the Luftwaffe, using words too obscene to print; a group of men sitting together by the coast, covered in blood and grime, were singing. _There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover. Tomorrow, just you wait and see..._why is it that every promise was for tomorrow, some tomorrow, and not today? Not now? A man with half his face missing lay motionless on the ground, not far from a wrecked ferris wheel, while his friend rocked back and forth on his heels, bending over him, as if in prayer. _That could be me tomorrow, _he thought. _Lyndie London _lay, fallen and conquered, anchored to the sand. The ship that had borne his beloved town's name.

How he longed for the London he had once known. How he longed for the rain, the sweet, refreshing rain that would wash away the blood and the nightmares that came after he woke. Rain...water. A gunshot resounded, echoing inside his head. An officer was shooting the horses, one by one, flaring his hand like a musketeer. Behind him, soldiers on a broken merry-go-round cheered as the went round, and round. Round and round, like his head...water, he wanted water. The wound in his chest prickled.

When night fell, he had to mind the dead strewn on the ground. _That could be me tomorrow, _he would think, as he stepped on a hand or a leg; the ships had arrived, oh yes, he could see their dark forms looming beyond the bay in the light of the many fires, of broken, incinerated cars and scraps of wood; the beach was a little less crowded, and quieter, and yet, not many slept. The only ones who slept were either very young, or dead.

He had not found a drop to drink. _Lyndie London _swam in his eyes, the sheets of London rain...he imagined himself standing, uncovered, with his head upturned and his mouth open, drinking the rain.

«C'mon, buddy, you'll see, tomorrow we'll be through with all this, just you see, we'll be 'eaded back home, don't you worry,» said his friend, always at his side. He had never left him, never let him down; his warm eyes and endless cockney chatter was what took his mind of things he had to, but didn't want to think about. He wished he could step in the rain and quench his thirst, wash away the false blame and clear his name, and bring his beloved back to him. He had not raped that woman. He didn't deserve this _redemption in combat; _he hadn't done anything that needed such redemption.

As his thoughts turned to his mother, he saw her. He saw her small, plump frame waddle out of sight, behind a stone pillar. Heart beating in anticipation, he followed her. The wound sent stabbing pains through his chest as he panted, running after his mother, the sound of his own heartbeat muting his friend's calls.

There she was, standing in the corner of this wrecked building. Why was her face so blurry, so fuzzy? Perhaps, he had tears in his eyes? He did not feel them. If only he had tears. He would drink them, salty as they were. It was so hot, oh, so hot.

«Sit down,» she said. Her voice was the way he remembered it. Cockey, just like his friend's, soft, loving. There was a tub of water, so cool against his feet, his bear feet. He threw the boots down nearby, onto the rubble-strewn floor. The flames outside, on the beach, made the room glow. Glow like the living room back home, with his mother, and _her..._

«I must get back to her, you know, soon. She loves me, you know? She loves me,» he said, his voice sounding the way it did when he was a child. Enthusiastic, adoring. She looked at him, with her cherished eyes, and smiled, the way he remembered her smile. Then she spoke again.

«Till you get back, get those papers I gave you for the road. Remember them? The picture and the love letters. The ones I found in that box of antique razors in the master's house. Master said I could have them, and I kept 'em for you,» she said, chuckling, the way he remembered her chuckling. He could feel those papers pressed against his chest. Those, along with _her _letters, and the picture of the cottage by the beach...

He would get to the cottage right now, with its blue painted windows and back rooms where you could hear the sound of the sea creeping off the shingle of the beach. He looked back, and his mother was gone; it was alright, he would see her later, when he returned. When he returned, he'd embrace them all.

«Hey, where're you goin with yer boots off? What's goin' on? What's the rush? Ye feelin' alright?» He had nearly forgotten about his friend waiting for him back outside.

«Never better,» he said, increasing his pace, «Got to find the cottage...shouldn't be far off...blue painted window frames...»

His friend's face was alarmed. «Sure, that's where we're goin', c'mon!»

They descended down into the bomb shelter where they slept. _Sure, this couldn't be what it looks like..._he thought to himself. Perhaps the cottage was too far off. Now he couldn't think. He just needed to lie down, something soft beneath him, something warm. There, his friend was covering him with a blanket, and settling down near him. He had forgotten his thirst. It didn't matter any more.

«What you got there pal?» asked his friend. He had taken out his bunch of letters and the postcard...the one _she _had given him. Of the cottage by the sea, with blue-painted window frames.

«These are _her _letters. She loves me, she's waiting for me. When this is over we'll be in a cottage by the sea, with blue-painted window frames...» he paused. «And these...» he extracted a bunch of letters at the back – they were yellower than _her_ letters, older, with a few tears here and there. «My mother found these in a box of antique razors the master of the house had. Mr. Tallis. They were hidden beneath a false bottom. She was cleaning them when she found it.»

«Whose letters are they?»

«Someone like us. Only not at war. In Australia. Penal colony of Botany Bay.»

«He must have been a tough nut to survive that place», said his friend, tucking the blanket closer around him.

«I don't know if he survived...he was falsely accused of murder, sent there for life. These letters are for his wife, apparently. Though he never sent them.»

«Don't think they could send mail from there, buddy,» said his friend, chuckling.

«He kept them with him all the time. With this,» he took an old picture out, of a man, a woman, and a young baby girl with an abundance of fair curls. _Perhaps that will be us tomorrow, _he thought.

«Poor chap,» said his friend, handing the picture back to him.

«Listen to this,» he said, taking out a letter. «Dear Lucy,» _Dear Cecilia..._ «I want to start this letter with a promise,» _So do I. _«I promise I will come back home to you, and love you, and be with you forever, and live without fear and shame.» _I promise I will come back, and love you, marry you, and live without fear and shame. _«The weather here is most peculiar. In the warm season, the rolls of thunder are accompanied by a wind like from a bread oven. Every time I feel it, I remember how I helped Mr. And Mrs. Lovett when the pie oven broke. I'm laughing as I write this – how rare it is to laugh. Perhaps I will survive that way. The waves of hot and cold are enough to startle anyone; one hour you sweat till you wish to strip off all your clothes, and the next second you shiver with cold, and long for a fur coat. There is probably a reason this place is called _Botany Bay. _It is a heaven for botanists. One needs no orchestra or music for the incessant clamour the frogs and insects make. I try to keep quiet and out of everyone's way. I have some good friends, partners in sorrow, as you might call it.»

_It's a wasteland here, cold, and hot, too. The heat comes from the fires, always the fires, and the bombs. Its hot enough to kill. I try to keep out of harm's way. I have some good friends, one very good friend, in fact, a partner in sorrow, as you might call it._

«We wake at crack of dawn and eat something that tastes much like water for breakfast, with bread that feels like chewing a shoe. Perhaps your cooking has spoiled me in time. Then we have have to get to work, but I don't want you to worry. I'll manage. Just wait and see.»

_We wake at crack of dawn and taste soil mostly. There's hardly and water here, and oh, Cecilia, it's so hot! Then its war as war is, wondering if the bullet will get you or your best friend first. But I don't want you to worry. I'll manage. Just wait and see. _

«I remember all those things I learned from you. That the simple is the ideal. That your treasure is there, where your heart is. I cherish every word you once told me. My worst fear is that one day, your voice will slip away from my memory...»

_I remember all those things I would not have known if not for you. The clarity of passion. The way even a library can be romantic. How something small can grow into something enormous. How holding hands under a table is so secret and yet so obvious. _He turned to another letter.

«Today, a friend of mine died. In my arms. It's painful to be away from you. It's painful to lose someone you shared your thoughts with in a bunkhouse full of the kind of men that have earned their punishments. Perhaps I should earn mine, since I'm already here, and do the same to that officer as what he did to my friend. Don't be scared, I know this will scare you. I shall not make friends no more. Nothing's ever yours to keep. Something else you unwittingly taught me.»

_Men die out of the battlefield every second. We are not people, but cannon fodder. It's painful to lose someone you share your soul with. I hope that with the end of the evacuation this will be over. Have I not shot many men? Don't be scared, I know this will scare you. I hope I won't have to shoot no more. _

He turned to a later letter. «Sometimes, I wonder if I'll be able to come back. Sometimes, I lose hope. I tried to run, and yet was apprehended with a couple of friends and thrown into this dark cell, from which I now write.» The letters were jumbled up, written in the dark, blindly. They were hard to read, mainly smudged, as if written in charcoal or black tar. «In those few hours of escape, I indeed hoped I was close to seeing you again. And yet here I am, a rat – or a mouse – I cannot tell - gnawing at my fingers, too absorbed in this letter I cannot even see to stop it, but now I realise how we have an entire ocean, months of journey chained together in a foul-smelling cabin reeking of death...of course I will never send this to you. I don't want you to know these terrible things.»

_Sometimes, I lose hope, too. _He flicked through the letters with his weak fingers, searching for an earlier one. They were brighter. Hopeful.

«Yesterday, they let us out to the docks, to look at the sea. I closed my eyes, and imagined that you and little Jo were sitting next to me. It was so peaceful. I almost forgot where I was. When I come back, we'll get a small house somewhere and live there in peace, away from prying eyes, away from talking mouths, away from everyone.»

_Before we found the beach, I went out into the fields today. I think that wound of mine is getting a little better. It was so peaceful – the misty red sunrise, the sound of crickets, the tall, cool, dewy grass. When I come back, we'll live at that cottage by the sea, away from prying eyes and voices, away from everyone. _

«And you will wait for me, and always remember me, won't you? You won't care about the deep marks on my back. I will come back, I promise. Don't you know me?»

His vision blurred, and he put his hand down, still clutching the letters, and closed his eyes. He saw himself in the police car, being dragged to it, his mother banging her fists on the bumper, _her_ in that long, beautiful forest-green dress, standing there, her mouth slightly open, her head on his shoulder as she embraced him. The man and woman kissing on the cinema screen, him kissing her in the library, holding hands under a table...

«Hey, hey!» his friend was jerking him awake. He could still see her face, as if printed with that old type writer into the pupils of his eyes. The type writer he had written her romantic letters on, while listening to opera on the radio, clouds of smoke billowing up from his cigarette.

«What is it?» he asked.

«Ye been shouting, pal, and tossin' and turnin'.» His friend stroke a match and brought it to his face, and it was pasty, shining with sweat. «God in 'eaven, ye look feverish. Ye should sleep buddy, an' try to keep quiet, or them folks'll get peeved, they been drinkin' all night...»

«I promise,» he said. To everyone. To his friend, to Cee, to his mother, even to that poor inmnate of Botany Bay, long dead. In the dying light of the match, he caught another glimpse of the postcard of the cottage by the sea. Tomorrow, at 7, will be the beginning.

As seven o'clock came, his friend placed a hand on his shoulder, his cold, motionless shoulder. His eyes were open, his rigid hand still clutching the letters. His friend sat there for a moment, his eyes creased and watery, in that timeless moment before the silence broke. Placing his fingers on his eyelids, he pushed them down. Now, he could be sleeping.

With the first creak of a matress, the first shuffles of feet on the floor, he took the postcard and letters from his friend's hand, and covered him gently with his blanket. He lingered a few seconds longer. A few seconds, that was what the war allowed him.

«Cheerio, pal.»


	17. The Hypocritical Oath

Enjoy it :-)!

I'd also like to mention that if anyone has a suggestion or idea they would like me to expand on in this series, a character you would really like explored, please feel free to leave a comment of a private message!

XVII. The Hypocritical Oath

«Found what you expected, Inspector?»

The voice, that betrayed old age, made him look up. The man's bushy gray eyebrows would undoubtedly stick out if one looked at him in profile. The inspector laughed, and heartily. A good laugh was all he needed now, within these grey walls, within these grey rooms that smelled of death.

The man smiled lightly at hearing the inspector laugh, and the Inspector gestured at him to sit down. He smelt strongly of ammonia, and the nails on his hands were blueish, the skin dry and wrinkled. Even the inspector, who had long since learned to treat everything with a cynicism and detachment that probably saved his sanity, he knew that a man's hands betrayed his age far better than his face.

«You must excuse me, sir, we have a cholera outbreak, I must reek something awful.»

«No matter, sir...» it did matter, of course, his nose burned from the smell. And yet, he had long since learned to treat everything with an indifference that had probably saved his mind. «Cholera,» he echoed. «I was wondering why it was so quiet.»

Even though the young inspector had long since learned to look past people's faces, to treat everything with an ignorance that probably kept the voices and visions at bay, he couldn't help but notice that the man's eyes reminded him of an old spaniel, rheumy-eyed and sad, so much like dear Janet, who ran out in front of that carriage one misty morning...

What was wrong him? Had he not long since learned to speak and think of death with the same coolness as if he were thinking about the weather?

«It must be hard, having to come to these places all the time...» said the man, raising his bushy eyebrows.

«It's my job,» he said, although he suddenly wished he could talk to this man, this man he never knew, to talk to him, about how hard it was. About how he had to skim over the details. About how hard it was to go to work in the morning. About how he only did it to distract himself. Because it got him out of bed in the morning. It made him forget. Forget the wife that left him. Forget the boy that shared his eyes. Forget Janet, who had, in the last glance of her life, held the same condemnation as his wife's when she had left. And yet, he had learnt to respond to everything with an insincerity that had probably kept him out of Bedlam. «It's my job,» he repeated. They were silent for a while. «Are you a doctor?» he asked. It was a pointless question, and yet, was not everything pointless? Where all the antics of this world not a mere distraction from what mattered? Not that he knew what mattered in any case.

At this, the man gave a mirthless chuckle. «I suppose you could call it so.»

The inspector frowned at this. He had long since learned to report facts with an accuracy that probably made him paranoid, and yet saved him his job. «What do you mean, sir?»

This was followed by a protracted silence. The man's rheumy eyes focused on the floor. The grey, dirty floor.

«I don't deserve to be called so. Like so many others do not. When I was young, I believed anyone who was clever could be a doctor. Now I know that cleverness is not enough. In fact, it is the tiniest fraction of what matters in reality. Oh, I was clever, I was the best student of medicine. I could have been a physician to Her Majesty, for the amount of skill I possessed.»

That puzzled the inspector even more. «So why are you here, doctor? The pay here is minimal, barely acceptable for man of such skill.»

«I want to help people,» he said, his eyes still on the floor, his bushy eyebrows scrunched up, «those who are less fortunate than us.» He turned to the inspector. «You are an inspector, sir. Do you not know the conditions in these workhouses? There is a reason that they are nicknamed _The Bastille. _Today...» he raised his hands, his chapped, dry hands with their blueish nails, in front of his face, and his eyes creased at the corners. The inspector had never seen someone with so many wrinkles in his life. «I saved four children. From cholera. They will recover, I am sure of it....»

«There are plenty of other doctors around that can do this job. You, sir, could have become great. Listen to me, please, I could ask...»

At this, the doctor sprung up onto his feet, with a surprising agility, and stood in front of the inspector, his chapped hands curled into fists, his eyes livid under those bushy eyebrows.

«I need none of your help, sir, none of the help of the men who let this country go to the dogs while they dress in the finest silks and leathers and eat from gold plates.»

«We do not eat from...»

«Leave that, sir! You know very well what exactly I mean by that!»

The inspector stared, taken aback. «There are not many doctors that so commend the Hippocratic oath, sir,» he said. He had long since learned that to avoid conflict in a way that had probably kept the grey out of his hair up to now. At this, the doctor threw his head back and laughed, in his hoarse, low voice, laughed and laughed, until he clutched his stomach and staggered to the bench where he had sat.

«Sir?»

The doctor turned to him, staring at him with watery eyes. Those rheumy eyes now filled with tears of mirth. «The hypocritical oath does not interest me, I'm afraid. It is no different and no more commended than any other oath. Men forget oaths the second after they swear them.»

«But sir, you uphold...»

«I, I, what do I matter?» shouted the doctor. «Yes, I do, in a way, but not because of the oath, but because of this, sir, this» he said, slapping his chest with his hand – where his heart was. «That hypocritical oath is the damned reason why there are so few good doctors. They think that, just because you have recited a couple of lines, you may now have a permanently clear conscience. No sir, no sir.» catching sight of the inspectors expression, he let out a snort of laughter. «Don't let all of this fool you, Inspector. I was one of those hypocrites once, too. Unfortunately life does not give second chances.» he paused for a few seconds, wringing his wrinkled, chapped hands. «A week ago I was called to visit a poorhouse. A man was who was about to check himself out of there approached one of the workers and asked when he and his wife and children could move out. The worker told him he couldn't take his wife because they had buried her a month before.»

The doctor leaned back against the wall, and inhaled deeply. Behind one of the many doors, someone began to scream.

But the walls were thick enough to blot out any such disturbance. They were thick enough to stop anyone's voice from being heard outside this _Bastille. _They would stop anyone inside from hoping that the revolutionaries would be coming to overthrow the men who ran it, the men in fancy waistcoats, with golden pocket-watches. And had the inspector not long since learned to blot out the sounds that would make his mind a wreck?

«If you still think the hypocritical oath is any good for anyone, sir, I will tell you a story. It happens, also, that this story is about me. I don't come from a very rich family, so when I had finished my education, apart from accepting home calls, I worked in the Fleet Street Apothecary. I needed more money, you see, sir, my mother was dying at that time... »

The screaming stopped abruptly; whoever it was, they were either tired, or dead.

«One night, a woman came to me. A woman I recognized as the wife of a local barber. She was in the worst state, puffy face and eyes, hair in disarray...and she had reason to be like that, since her husband had been sent off on a false charge, she had been accused of prostitution and her child had been taken away from her...a daughter, I think, it was...well, as I said, she came to me, and very quietly told me that she had mice. In her house.»

The inspector shuddered, and thought of his wife. His wife and the way she had looked at him when she left. She hadn't cried. She hadn't looked sad. Only anger and condemnation, that was all he had detected in the last glimpse of her face.

«She said she had an infestation of mice, and that she needed some arsenic. I sold it to her. She handed me more money than I needed, and walked off without the change. If I didn't realise before, I should have realised it then. But I didn't stop her. I didn't even think on it.»

«So, what is wrong with that, doctor? You were doing your job.» That wasn't what he was thinking. He had long since learned to hide what he was thinking with a facility that was probably the reason his heart was still beating. Would he have sold her the poison? Probably. He had no right to judge this man. He, the inspector, was a hypocrite, like the rest. He had done many things which he now regretted.

«Later that night, I heard that she had poisoned herself.»

He had known, and yet, why was this a shock to him? Why did the hair rise on the back of his neck? It surprised him, for he had long since learned to accept everything with an impassiveness that was probably why he was still able to sleep at night.

«My job, you say, sir. My job. There we are, the famed, idealised, romanticized oath! _Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. _Preserve human life! Respect it! And what did I do? I as good as killed that poor woman.» His voice was not loud, and yet in its calm, the inspector could hear unshed tears.

«It was not...»

«My fault? That is an easy way to excuse onself, is it not? I was a doctor, and – there, sir! That is why I call the hypocritical oath the hypocritical oath.» He sighed. «After that, I changed more jobs than I can count. I worked in poorhouses, boarding schools....»

He shook his head, pursing his lips together. «Good God, how many children died in my arms? How many people separated before my very eyes? I still remember how some women brought toys to an orphanage and the only children that even showed any reaction – a proper reaction of a child to a new toy – were those who had been in the workhouse for only a few days. I still remember the sick children's ward in the workhouse where some of them died in their sleep, embracing a tattered old doll...I will always remember that poor woman I will always blame myself for killing. I will remember my stupidity for not seeing the obvious in her eyes, for not realising...»

His sentence trailed off into the silence, and they sat, unspeaking, side by side. The silence stretched on, and inch by inch, the inspector's hand moved up. Finally, he placed it on the doctor's shoulder. He placed it there, knowing that it would be cold, not having touched for so many years; it would be cold, not having waved 'hello' in so long; it would be cold, not having held another since his wife had gone.

«Perhaps she would have killed herself anyhow, with or without your arsenic, doctor,» he said, his voice so gentle it surprised him, for he had long since learned to speak with a hardness that was probably the reason his life was an empty abyss. He had long since learned to shut everyone out with a persistence that was probably the reason he no longer even remembered how to smile. How to laugh. How to think what _he_, and not others, wanted to think.

«That does not matter. I am a _doctor..._» clearing his throat, he stood up, straightened his waistcoat and held his hand out to the inspector to shake. «I must be on my way, I'm afraid. Please excuse me, it was most pleasant to speak with you, sir.» He let go of the inspector's hand and started walking away, towards one of those grey doors. Doors of prison cells of this _Bastille_, marked with grey as a plague-ridden house's door was marked with blood.

«Wait, please, sir!» The doctor stopped and turned. The two men looked at each other, looked at each other across the grey corridor. The Inspector pressed his hands together. «Thank you,» he said. The doctor gave him a half-smile, and nodded. His hands behind his back, he turned on his heel and walked away.

As the inspector walked home, he thought of an opening sentence of a letter. A letter he thought he'd never have the courage to write. A leter in which he would tell her that he was sorry for marrying another woman under a different name. In which he'd tell her why he had been away every night, away from her and his son.

A letter in which he would tell her he loved her. Loved her, and the little boy with her hair and his eyes. In which he would say he could not take this game of pretence any longer. That he could not live without her. That he was sorry.

So sorry.


	18. Bronze Statue of Yenisey

Epic chapter!

Based on _Requiem _by Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966), living during Stalinist repressions. My translation of her poem are all in italics. This hits home for me, my grandparents grew up in this time.

Assume Sweeney's prison time to be 1835-1850, including the time in prison before trial.

Watch the changes in POV and the footnotes!

If you think I'm evil and playing with your mind, youre right!

+If anyone ever tells you fanfiction cannot be educational, tell them HA and show them this. Yes, this IS an advertising move.

XVIII. Bronze Statue of Yenisey

If time had wings,

Perhaps we'd all be brothers

And sisters, just in grief alone

And maybe we would know a mother

Who lost a son

Just like our very own.

If time had wings,

Perhaps we'd meet another

Who, whipped for nothing,

Lay dying on the floor

And maybe then we'd learn forever,

That through all time,

wherever, and whenever,

We've never been alone.

[Snezhinka, 2010]

_Not under foreign skies  
Nor under foreign wings protected -  
I was then with my own people_

_There, where, in misfortune, my people were too.  
__[Leningrad, 1961]_

Under a foreign sky,

Under no-one's wings protected –

I am with my own people

And yet, so alone.

[Botany Bay, 1840]

_During the frightening years of the Yezhovschina(__1)__ terror, I spent seventeen months waiting in prison queues in Leningrad. One day, somehow, someone recognized me. And then, the woman standing behind me, who, had of course, never heard my name, woke from the trance characteristic for all of us, and asked me, quietly, whispered in my ear: _

_«And this, could you describe this?' _

_And I said - 'I can.' _

_And then, something like a smile slid across what had once been her face._  
_[The 1st of April in the year 1957. Leningrad]_

During the first few months of my imprisonment, I was very much alienated from the rest of the group. Once, standing in a queue waiting to be served what they called food, a man standing behind me nudged me in the back. I recognized in him one of the members of my barrack. An optimistic, talkative young man who saw everything in a bright light. He bent towards me and whispered in my ear.

«I wish I could read an' write, I'd describe all o' this pretty well and make a fortune when I get out. Perhaps ye could teach me,» he added, sniggering.

«It's hard to describe this with words,» I answered. And yet, perhaps it was possible. But I would never write it down.

[The first of April, 1836]

Instead of a prologue

_Mountains bend before this grief,  
The great river stops its flow,  
But prison doors stay firmly bolted  
Shutting off the convict burrows  
And deathly anguish.  
Fresh winds blow for someone softly,  
Gentle sunsets warm them through;_

_We don't know this,  
All of us, the same:  
We only hear the scrape of hateful keys  
And the heavy tread of marching soldiers.  
Waking up as if for early mass,  
Walking through the capital, now wild,  
We'd meet, breathing less than death itself  
The sun, lower; the Neva(__2)__, drenched in mist,  
With hope still singing in the distance.  
The verdict. Here come floods of tears,  
And now, she's all alone,  
As if life ripped from a beating heart,  
As if thrown to die, sprawled on the earth,  
_

_But there she goes...she sways...alone  
Where are you, unwilling girl-friends,  
Captives of my two satanic years?  
What visions do you see, in the Siberian storm?  
What visions do you see in the halo of the moon?  
Each one of them, in farewell, I salute._

_[March 1940]_

The wait is long

The night is quiet

Perhaps, tomorrow...

I would be free;

Or trudging along in chains to a ship

That smelled of death

Of parting, and of sorrow.

Some men have yet to wake,

In their soft beds, at home, so safe.

We do not know this,

And those bright times

In the back of the mind,

With sunshine laced...

It is as if they never existed.

The verdict. Somewhere, I can hear her cry.

And now she's all alone, like me,

Walking...swaying...empty.

Where would I be, in a few years time?

What visions would I see, in the desert air?

What would I see, in the muzzle of a gun?

What visions would I see, in the halo of the sun?

...Farewell.

[London Prison, 1836]

Dedications

_It happened like this when only the dead  
Were smiling, glad of their freedom,  
And Leningrad hung about its prisons  
Like a worthless addition. _

_And when, mad with torture, _

_The Troops of accused  
Where marching along on their way  
_

_Shrill, sharp, the steam-whistles sang  
A short song of farewell that day. _

_Stars of death shone over us  
As innocent Russia writhed  
Under blood-spattered boots  
And the Black Marusya(3) tyres__._  
_[Leningrad, 1940]_

I suppose only the dead

Smile, and sleep, too

The world lies beneath its prisons

Like a pedestal.

I walked towards the ship,

closer, and closer

I heard her say my name;

She had cried all her tears

Her voice was just a wave

A ripple

In the swirling water

A song of farewell, that day.

Stars of death shone on me.

As London turned into a pit

Trampled by boots of corruption

And injustice, like black tar,

Slid into the cracks...

[London harbour, 1835]

I.

_You were taken away at dawn.__  
I followed you, just like  
I'd follow a coffin; _

_Children cried in the darkened hall;  
Before the Icon the candle had faded away;  
The cold of that icon upon your lips lay, _

_A deadly sweat on your brow,  
Oh, I will never cease to remember! _

_And I will, like the Wives of Strelets__(4)_

_Wail beneath towers of the Kremlin.  
_

_[1935. Autumn. Moscow]_

You were taken away at midday

Among flowers, that look now

Like funeral wreaths...

The baby in my arms cried.

The candle back home flickered

And died,

Before the Holy Icon.

You screamed for me,

Blood from your head,

Oh, I'll never forget.

I will come, like a widow of war,

And wail beneath the prison walls.

[1835, July. London].

II.

_Silent flows the river Don  
A yellow crescent shines silently on  
The house; she enters, hat askew;  
She watches the shadow of the moon; _

_This woman is ailing, _

_This woman is alone _

_Her husband dead, her son in jail _

_Pray for me..._

_[1938]_

Silent flows the river Thames

A crescent, yellow as my hair

It shines upon my empty stairs

In my empty house.

I enter, crooked bonnet,

Arsenic in hand

I see the shadow of the moon

Upon the floor, so grey and bland.

This woman is ill

This woman is alone

Her daughter taken, her husband gone...

Pray for me...

[London, 1835]

III.

_It isn't me, someone else is suffering, not me._  
_Not like this, and that, what has happened,_  
_Cover it with black sheets,_  
_Then let the torches be removed. . ._  
_Night._

_[1939]_

It isn't me, someone else is suffering. I couldn't –

What am I? Who am I? I feel like I am on fire.

What has happened, poison will enfold in its black cloth

Cover it forever, cut the memory from my mind

Like a butcher's knife

A barber's blade

Let the candles go out...

Night.

[1835]

IV.

_It'd do good to show you, laughing, chatting,  
Everyone's favourite friend  
The happy sinner of Tsarskoye Selo__(5)__  
What will happen to your life in the end.  
Beneath the Crosses (6), you will stand, _

_Three-hundredth in line, _

_A parcel in hand,  
And with your hot tears _

_You will burn holes_

_In the new year's ice._

_Back and forth the prison poplar sways  
And not a sound is heard – but how many  
Lives end there, innocent, without blame . ._  
_[1938]_

Oh, if only you had seen,

Everyone's darling, everyone's friend,

What will happen to you in the end.

Like the last whore, you will stalk the streets,

Your husband the millionth in a prison queue

In the far off desert heat;

And sitting, for hours, at the deserted bay,

And with your hot tears you will water the Thames

Waiting for him to come home.

[1840, London]

V.

_For seventeen months I have been screaming,  
Calling you home.  
I've knelt before the executioner  
For you, my son and my horror.  
Now everything's muddled forever  
And I no longer know  
Who is a man, and who a beast .  
And how long it is _

_Till the execution..._

_And the dusty flowers, _

_And the death toll,  
And the tracks _

_Seem to lead nowhere...  
And, staring me through the cracks  
Threatening me with swift death  
Is an enormous star...  
__[1939]_

Weeks I have been screaming

To give you back to me,

I've knelt before the judge

For you, my daughter, part of me.

Now everything is gone forever,

And I no longer know,

Who is a man, and who is a beast,

And why death is so slow.

The rotting flowers in my room

The empty chair, the empty bed

The tracks in the floor dust I'd never clean

Lead nowhere at all. Instead,

The stars shine brightly every night

And when with baited breath,

I will wish upon a star,

I will wish...for death.

[1835, London]

VI.

_Light weeks fly by _

_And I don't understand_

_What has happened.  
How, my son, into your prison  
Did the White Nights stare?  
And how do they stare, again, now,  
With hawks' eyes,  
Talking of your tall cross,  
Of death.  
[1939. Spring]_

Weeks fly by,

And I don't understand

What has happened.

Do you, my daughter, from your prison,

Remember me at all?

Does the star that stares through the window

Now remind you of my song?

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder how you are,

There, within the sky so deep

Let it soothe your troubled sleep.

I will not come back again  
Stars will stay, so let it rain!  
And when you show your little light  
Twinkle, soothe your tears at night.

[1835. Late Autumn, London]

VII. The Verdict 

_The word fell like a stone_  
_Onto my still living chest_

_It's alright, I was prepared,_  
_Somehow, I'll cope, I'll do my best.  
_

_I have a lot to do today;_  
_I need to kill my memory;_  
_I need to turn my soul to stone;_  
_I need to learn to live again._

_And yet...the hot rustle of summer_

_Like a celebration beyond my door;_

_I have long expected this_

_Bright day, and this deserted home._

_[June 22nd, 1939, Fontanny House]_

The word fell onto my chest

That still lived, and breathed with life;

Had I not known? Deep down, I had;

I'll cope somehow, I know, I'll try.

I have much work to do today:

I must kill memories of you;

Turn my blood and heart to grey;

A stony heart, just skin and sinew;

I need to learn to dry my tears

I need to learn to live again.

But warm July just smiles, cheered,

Like a dance beyond these walls

I had never thought, that some day

I'd come back on such a bright day

To an empty home.

[July, 1835, 186 Fleet Street, London]

VIII. Ode to Death 

_Death, you will come anyway - so why not now?  
I wait for you; it's so hard for me.  
I have turned out the lights and opened the door  
For you, so simple and so wonderful.  
Assume whatever shape you wish. Burst in  
Like a bomb of poisonous gas. Creep up on me  
Like an experienced criminal, with a weapon.  
Poison me, if you want, with Typhus,  
Or, with a simple tale prepared by you  
(And known by all to the point of sickness), take me  
So I can see the top of a blue hat,  
And the house administrator's terrified white face. (__7)__  
I don't care anymore. The river Yenisey  
Flows on. The Polar Star shines bright.  
And the dark blue shine of beloved eyes  
Covers and soothes the deathly fright. _  
[19 August 1939. Fontannyi House]

Death, you will come anyhow – so come now!

I wait for you every night in the barracks.

I leave sleep to others, and I sit in the dark

Waiting for you, so simple, so beautiful, my saviour

Take whatever shape you wish.

Become a bullet from an officer's gun,

A jealous convict with a club,

Or a woman, which, I will, by instinct protect, and be

Annihilated for my kindness.

I don't care no more.

The ocean swirls beyond the walls. A star above me shines so bright;

And when you come, Death, the glow of her beloved eyes

Will mute my scream and soothe my fright.

[1839, Botany Bay]

IX.

_Madness with its wing  
Has covered half my soul already  
It feeds me fiery wine  
And lures me into a black alley. _

_And that is when I understood  
That I must let it win, alas,  
When I listened to my own_

_Delirium _

_As if to another's._

_And it won't let me take_

_Anything away with me _

_(However you may ask it, _

_However you may beg): _

_Not my son's frightening eyes -  
Or hardened, stony suffering  
Or the day, when thunder came,  
Or the hour of a prison meeting, _

_Nor the dear coolness of a hand  
Nor the anxious shade of Linden,  
Nor the light sound, in the distance,  
Of words of final consolation. _

_[14 May 1940. Fontannyi House]_

Madness with its wave

Has enveloped me whole

It feeds me fire

Feeds me gall.

And I knew, as I heard

In delirium, my voice,

Saw my eyes, bulging,

My speech a noise

I would hear in passing,

That it would have to win;

And it would give me nothing to keep

To cherish, from within,

Not my husband's voice, or face,

Nor the brown of his eyes,

Nor my friend's dear hands and words

Of comfort, or the cries

Of my daughter, and her warm weight,

resting

In my arms,

Nor the sun that came through leaves of trees

As I cried in the streets for alms.

All that's left, would be a trace

Like a footprint in loose sand

That would etch streaks in my face

Make me run, to wait, forever,

At the harbour, to retrace...

...memories...

[London, 1835]

X. Crucifixion

_A choir of angels glorified the hour,  
The heavens melted into flames.  
To His father, 'Why hast thou forsaken me!'  
But to his mother, 'Weep not for me. . .'_

_Magdalena smote herself and wept,  
The beloved disciple stony in his stance,  
But there, where the mother stood and silence kept,  
No-one even dared to glance.  
[1943. Tashkent]_

_XI. _Epilogue _  
_

_I have learned how faces fall,  
How terror looks from lowered lids,  
How hard pages of writing  
Trace suffering on cheeks  
I know how hair of black and ash  
Can suddenly turn silver. _

_I've learned how little smiles  
On submissive lips can wither;  
_

_How in the little laugh  
So dry,  
trembles terror.  
And, so, I  
Pray not for myself alone _

_But to those who stood with me, to them all,  
ln freezing cold and scorching July heat  
Under the red, blind wall. _

_[March 10th, 1940]_

I have seen how one can turn

From man into a beast

How faces crease

How hair of black,

Or red, of white,

Can become gray as mist,

How memories begin to twist

And fade, like smiles on worn mouths.

How marks upon those burdened backs

Become one's only name

I will not pray, but if one must,

He must pray but for all of us

Who stands in heat, in cold, in snow

Beneath the stars, which, in their blindness, glow...

[July 1847, Botany Bay]

_The hour has come to remember the dead.  
I see you, I hear you, I feel you:_

_The one who was dragged with brute force to the window;  
And who native soil no longer tread; _

_The one who, flicking her beautiful head, _

_«I come here, like a home!» - she said, _

_I wish I could call you all by your names,  
But the list has been taken, _

_And to know no-one claims. _

_For them I have woven a blanket, a sheet, _

_Of poor words, of words I had heard of them speak; _

_Of them, I remember, forever and always, _

_Even in new grief I won't forget. _

_And even if they shut my tormented mouth  
_

_Through which screams a people of _

_Millions, of us, _

_Let them, too, remember me _

_That way _

_On the eve of my burial day. _

_And if someone sometime decides, in this land, _

_To build a memorial for me, I hand _

_My consent for such an event to take place, _

_But with a condition – do not build it to face _

_The place by the sea, where I was born, _

_With the sea, alas, the last bond has been torn; _

_Nor in the Tsar's Park by the stump so hallowed;  
Where an inconsolable shadow for eternity will follow; _

_But here, where for three hundred hours I stood bold, _

_And where, for me, they never slid open the bolt _

_Because even in bliss of death I fear _

_To forget the thundering Black Marusyas _

_Forget how the hateful door's slams never ceased, _

_And how the old woman, howled like a wounded beast..._

_[March 1940. Fontannyi Dom]_

The hour has come; as I run,

I remember,

the friends and the foes,

The hot summers of November.

Him, who was dragged by his skin to his death

And him, being a hero, with no laurel wreath

Him, whom I cherished, a friend and a brother

Who fell on his knees and walked not much farther

And him, who came into the barracks with laughs

Saying he'd beat them, he'd win on our behalf!

And if I don't live, as many have not

Let all the others not forget my lot

And if someone, sometime

Though it is unlikely(8)

Decides to build a memorial for me

I do agree to this, and yet, a condition:

Do not place it in London, by my old home;

I do not wish her to know I am gone;

Do not build it in vanity,

Paint me clear,

The animal I am now,

Revenge countering fear

Build it right here, on the bay, where I died,

Thinking of her, who, was once by my side

Build it with passion, with truth and with hate

That which I only deserve and await

_**And let, from the motionless eyelids of bronze **_

_**Like tears, thawing ice fall and flow, thereupon,  
**_

_**And the prison dove let in the far distance coo, **_

_**And along the Niva let the silent ships go.**_

Footnotes:_**  
**_

1 Nikolai IvanovichYezhov: senior figure in the NKVD (Soviet public and secret police) from 1936 to 1938, whose reign during the period of Stalinist repressions and purges was sometimes known as «Yezhovschina».

2 River Neva – a river in northwestern Russia flowing from Lake Ladoga through the western part of Leningrad region.

3 «Black Marusya» - cars used to transport the arrested. «Marusya» is diminutive for the name «Maria».

4 «Streletsky Wives»: after the Streltsy regiment Uprising of 1698 against Peter the Great, Peter had some 1200 Streltsy men executed. The reference to their wives is probably from the painting by V.I. Surikov, «Morning of the Streletsky execution».

5 «Tsarskoe Selo» – literally, «Tsar's village» - a summer residence where Akhmatova spent her early years.

6 «The Crosses»: a prison complex in central Leningrad near the «Finland» Train Station, called The Crosses because of the shape of two of the buildings.

7 «...top of a blue hat/administrator's white face»: NKVD workers wore blue-coloured caps. Also, during arrests, the adminsitrator, «upravdom», was usually present.

8 I think Sweeney is being humble here. Did Tim Burton not make an epic memorial for him?


	19. An Evening at Sullivan's

Hello everyone!

This is lighter reading than others, but nevertheless it is a story with a moral.

XIX. An Evening at Sullivan's

This was dust that did not make one sneeze.

It twinkled in the muted yellow light; it made children believe in fairies and magic stars that came from wands; it surrounded vintage-clad figures that pored over objects as old as time. Sometimes, men would sit around the old round coffee table in the center, looking like subjects of ancient paintings that gazed at one from behind glass shields, eyes shining in their sfumato brushstrokes.

If truth be told, Sullivan's was more of tea shop and meeting place, and one who lived among books would say that the atmosphere was that of a meeting place for medieval heretics.

The old man – Mr. Sullivan, or _Old Dan, _a kindly old man who spent his evenings feeding pigeons and drinking Irish whiskey – would sit with his customers, like King Arthur at his tea table, talking about age-old objects, age-old friends and who had more stamps in their collectors' books. A century back an artist would walk in and paint them in deep browns and coppers, with a Rembrandtian light.

Mr. Sullivan was the kind of man who wished on stars. The kind of man that would lean on his age-old cane and mutter that he was born in the wrong century. The kind of man who hated life when numbers added up and everything could be explained. _Mystery allows us to live,_ he would say. _Sacriligeous as it may sound, I do pity God. To know everything...is a terrifying thought in itself. Dr. Faustus was a fool..._he would talk a lot after a few glasses of Jameson.

In fact, 'customers' was only a name he ascribed to his friends, for they never bought anything, and Sullivan's had not sold anything in a few months. The shop window was merely a window for some, a mirror for others, but nothing of tangible interest. And yet, he did not complain. Mr. Sullivan never needed money. He was the kind of man who buried his face in an old book to inhale its scent; he was the kind of man who thought money came from the devil. He was the kind of man a rich father would disown because he wasted money on books, and not gold.

Would he buy anything himself? No, he would not. Even though he had enough money to buy half the shop's contents. Was it because he disliked old objects, because he did not have a fondness for them? No, oh no, and what an illogical proposition that would be. Old things had always been subjects of his endless fascination with the mysterious; old things were something he had dedicated himself to. But he would not have one in the house.

He loved mystery, and yet he believed it should remain untouched. There is a reason one is wary of the dark; equally, there is a reason one should be wary of old things. He had not acquired this piece of wisdom at his round tea table, where he and his companions seemed to be Arthur and his knights; he had acquired it from a woman.

He had never had any particular opinion on women; he had never married, although no-one knew how many childhood crushes – or perhaps, greater affections – he concealed within his heart. This woman had been old, her English accented, with a young boy – her grandson – and they had entered his shop, the lady quietly trailing behind the boy, wherever he went.

The boy's eyes, he remembered, had grown lighter by the minute, in his childlike enthusiasm and engagement with the unknown; he had left no ancient object untouched, and yet he regarded everything like one would regard an expensive toy, something valuable and yet rather superficial, to be played with and then forgotten. His attitude had changed, however, when he arrived at one article at the back of the shop.

A box of razors.

As he reminisced, he, unwittingly, walked to the back of the shop, and was soon tracing a finger over the fine wooden patterns of the box...The boy had taken each one in his young hands, traced the patterns on their handles, flicked them open, watched how the light played on the blade, the mellow yellow light of the shop...the boy had turned to him, his gaze frank, sincere in that precious childlike way that slips away like sand through fingers as we age, and asked. «Where did you get these from, mister?»

He had smiled. «These were sent to us from Poland. Quite a far-off country, you know, son,» he had then turned to his grandmother. «You see, madam, the inscription on the handle» - he had indicated it to her – «and the box» - that too – «are that of an English master. The story behind these is very interesting: some old descendant of the Knyazes(1) Kalinowsky, left all his posessions in his will to his wife and son, all except these razors. And he died in a strange way, you know – smallpox! In our day...» he had trailed off, staring into space. «Heaven knows why, but he sent them to the Polish Antiques association...they, in turn, sold them to Britain, and they ended up here.»

The woman had run her long, spindly fingers along the handles of the razors, silver, pure, chaste, silver. The young boy had watched his grandmothers hand, mesmerized.

«They're pretty, aren't they, gran?»

The old woman had chuckled, and yet the spark in her eyes remained fierce. «Pretty, but who knows what they carry inside them. Who knows...» The old man's eyes had then been so much like the young boy's, mesmerized, the light from the fireplace dancing in his eyes. She spoke like a fortune-teller, an old Gypsy, a prophetess. Her eyes shone, as if they held the future in their black depths. Perhaps, the old man now thought, her eyes had been blue, or green, but in the muted light of the shop that night, they had seemed coal black.

«It's only a box of razors, madam,» he had said, waving his hand. It cast a fleeting shadow across the glistening silver.

The woman had looked up, her eyes black and shining, like glass beads. Her expression was sardonic, her mouth twisted in a mirthless half-smile. She had quietly moved around the table on which the razors lay, and had stood close to him, so close. She wasn't a tall woman, her head coming up to the base of his neck. She was so close, he could feel her breath on his collarbone. He had thought, then, remembered, a game the servant girls had played in the yard of his home when he had been a child– _Old Witch. _A row of girls stood with their backs turned...the 'old witch' would sneak up on them, and they had to run before she approached close enough to touch them.

«Just a box of razors...you live so long among old things, you know everyone of them like your five fingers...» she had trailed one of hers across the collar of his shirt. Her accent had turned out to be stronger than he had first noticed. She rolled her r's. «And yet you know nothing...are you foolish enough to believe that objects keep nothing within them? Have you never wondered why two violins made by the same technique, the same instruments, but by different people, always sound different? Why jewels can bring tragedy...»

He had been lost for words, so he settled for shaking his head, standing so close to her, so close to her clairvoyant-like eyes. He did not remember her blinking, not even once.

«As you say these razors came from Poland, let us start there. Do you know the story of the treasures of the Radzhevils?»

«Yes, I heard of them. They were Polish Knyazes...the treasures, they were...»

«Lost, yes. But that's not the point. What I meant, was...do you know the curse of the Radzhevil treasures?»

Once again, he had contented himself with shaking his head.

«Well, you see, there was a parure in posession of the Radzhevils: a pair of earrings, a necklace and a brooch. It was intended to be given as a present to the brides of the firstborn sons...well, one of these sons fell in love with a _kholopka_. Do you know what that means?» She had not waited for a response from him, and answered her own question in a whisper, that could have been part of the crackling flames in the hearth. «A serf!»

He had frowned, his expression confused. «So?» he had asked. Her eyes had widened, the veins in her neck bulged, and she shook him by the shoulders. Now, standing by the table with the razors, he could still remember the feel of her claw-like hands on the flesh of his arms.

«Obviously,» she had continued in the same whisper, «his parents did not bless their union. So young Radzhevil jumped from the topmost tower of his palace, and the kholopka...she drowned herself. But before she drowned herself, she cursed the Radzhevil dynasty...and the treasure along with it.»

He had remained glued to the spot, staring at her, and so she had decided it fit to continue without waiting for his comment.

«Ever since then, everyone who gained posession of even one item from the parure, was unhappy in love. _Every one!» _She had paused. «The curse ended, only, when a direct descendant of the Radzhevils assembled all three items of the parure...»

«But that is...it's just a story, a legend...» and yet, his heart had said differently. Did he not believe in everything being possible? In legends and myths being stories circling small morsels of truth?

«Believe what you may. But mark my words – _never take any old object unless you know it's history.» _She had laughed then, walking away from him, making towards the door, hand in hand with her grandson. «In the end, you are none of my concern. But, still, if I were you, I would trace the history of those razors...their last owner died of smallpox, you said?»

He had remained speechless for a long time after that, and his friends had wondered what was wrong with him, for he took no part in their conversation that night, and saw them off at night with a distant expression upon his face.

He had not, despite himself, believed the woman at first. It was easier to believe in random fairytale creatures and myths than in stories that might affect one. And yet, despite himself, he had researched into the razors' past.

Josef Kalinowsky had died of smallpox soon after he had acquired them from a close friend of his, Maryla Kobylanska, whose husband had died in a car crash that happened as they were leaving the antique shop. The antique shop informed him that the razors had arrived there during the time of the Soviet Union, when the Cheka had confiscated them from an illegal emigrant from Hungary, who had then been killed by a firing squad. The Hungarian, in turn, had bought the razors from an Englishwoman whose husband had died of a tetanus infection after trying to shave with one of the silver knives...During the time of World War 2, it had been in the posession of an English family, whose daughter fell in love with a young man, a son of a servant of the household, whose education had been paid for by that family, and who was later falsely convicted of rape and sent to battle, where he died of septicemia...In fact, he had managed to travel back in time as far as to learn of a young English count in the times of Queen Victoria, who had been brutally killed by a mob...a young count who had bought the razors in an auction on Fleet Street...

_Never take any old object unless you know it's history. _

As he walked away from the box of razors, he thought, that if he had a son, that would be a piece of advice he would pass on.

But for now, all he could do was talk at his round tea table, and make children that passed by believe Arthur and his knights were immortal, and lived in an antique shop.

1 «Knyaz» - a royal nobility rank. Can be translated into English as Duke; some translate is as prince, though not all knyazes were in ruling families; royal princes were often called «Grand Duke» - «Velikiy Knyaz».


	20. Chère Maman

I have been having exams so I have been in a bit of a dormant mode up to now. First, I'd like to say that chapter 18 will be out on youtube soon! It isn't exactly easy reading so I decided to read it out.

As for this chapter, I quite love it, it wasn't easy to write, and I hope you enjoy it. Keep some tissues handy. Review!

XXI. Chère Maman

_Cold, stone cold are the walls in my prison. _When she spoke these words, some of the few she ever spoke, she sang them. And when she sang them, she did not know how she knew the music; she did not know that it was a nursery rhyme about the twinkling lights that shined in the sky, twinkling at her through the bars, at night. She only knew that someone loved her. He loved her because he had told her, he had whispered in her ear.

It was not a pleasant memory; and yet, nightmares are only nightmares if one has dreams to counter them. She had none of them, and thus, all memories were one to her, all nightmares one dream.

And yet, she shuddered with revulsion when she relived the moment. She knew he loved her – for he had said it, is it not so? Did words not offer consolation from the eternal silence and emptiness, the detached numbness that buzzed in her head like a relentless insect one cannot shoo away? His breath had been hot against her neck, hot and repulsive. His entire body too heavy to shift, especially when her hands had been somehow pinned above her head…She remembered screams, though she did not realize that they were her own. And she remembered his heavy hand grip her by the hair and push her head to the side, whispering, _I love you. _She remembered the cries of a baby, growing more and more distant by the second, until she stood up and ran to the door, pounding it with her fists, for the cries were so close, so close…

_A baby, there is a baby crying, _she would say, panting, struggling against the hands holding her down, and they, the owners of those hands, those hard, unfeeling hands, hurled insults at her, told her to stop before she was dead. _There is no baby, _they would say. _You're imagining things. _And yet, was it indeed _her _imagining things? Or was it everyone else pretending in order to uphold a reality they were used to? The baby's cry always came from the right side of the room. From the mouse-hole in the wall. And by night, when the moon rose and cast its pale shine on the barren floors, she would kneel at the mouse-hole and scrape at it with her nails, until her hands bled.

In the morning she would see red marks, red finger-marks around the mouse-hole, and weep for whatever shed that blood, whatever creature, big or small. Weep for the mouse, killed by the cat.

Morning was her favourite time, because of those curious twittering songs of the creatures outside, the creatures with wings, green and grey, that could soar above the ground. She wished _she _could soar and forget, although she did not know what she wanted to forget. She did not know how she could want to forget if she had nothing left to erase. Perhaps, she wanted to erase his words. _I love you. _She did not want that kind of love.

Perhaps she wanted to forget the eyes. The eyes that were imprinted on her mind, the eyes that, with their warmth did not let her die of cold when she lay alone and abandoned in the dirty hay. In those quiet hours, she would picture these eyes, and whisper, _don't I know you? Don't I know you? _Over and over again, in the darkness. With no-one to talk to but the still cold air, than the pale light of the moon, in which dust danced slowly until it fell.

It was night. Something loomed over her in the dark. She shivered, once, twice, and then started to shake in earnest.

The cold. The ice-cold. The ice-cold water, the bonds on the chair, the breathless pressure. Had he come to strap her down and drown her in freezing water? When she resurfaced, the shards of ice that floated in it would caress her face. Slip down her cheeks, into her lap, as she shivered. The moonlight evaded the depressions in his face, and he looked like a skull.

Despite the dark, she could see his smile, the teeth glinting slightly in the scant moonlight, teeth riddled with holes like mouse-eaten cheese.

"Letter for ye…" a few insults followed that statement, the statement she barely understood. The man, that man with the skeletal face, walked away, mumbling to himself. She did not even try to deduce the jumble of words coming from his mouth. It was hard for her to force herself to look through the mist sometimes, the haze that seemed to hang behind her eyes. Something fell with a soft _whoosh,_ and landed next to her ear.

The soft sound of paper hitting the hay rang in her ears like a bell, like one of the many voices that no longer sounded human, one of the many voices that surrounded her. One of the many voices, among which, undoubtedly, was her very own. She lay there, motionless, for a while longer, watching white wreaths fly over her. Were they wreaths? Or angels? Or simply mist and dust? Just the putrid air? She rolled her head, right and left, humming, her fingers already tracing the creamy edges of the letter.

She unfolded it, slowly, like one would unfold a letter, wanting to remain unnoticed in the dead of night, how one would peel a new potato. Perhaps it was a letter from that man who had told her he loved her. Her eyes, those eyes that hid behind a mist, skimmed over the letters. It wasn't a long letter.

_Dear Mother, _

_You probably don't remember me, and perhaps this letter will never reach you. He tells me you are dead, long since dead, but I never wanted to believe him. Then, a few days ago, I was feeling unwell and he had a doctor called in to see me – he whispered to me, that he knew me, that he had been there when I was born. When I asked about you, his face became very sad and he told me that you were too ill to be visited. He told me that you had lost your mind. He did not say why, but I swear I will find out. _

_Do not trouble yourself with thoughts of me. I am fine, and when I am free to do so I promise I will set out and find you, take you out of there. You are always in my heart, and when I wish upon anything that has the tiniest part of magic in it, on stars and enchanted rivers, I wish to see you one day. _

_Perhaps you cannot read this, but I want you to know that you are always in my heart. As a captive in a house, I learn everything from books, and I have learned that one must believe in magic. I do. I have always believed. Maybe one day I will embrace you. _

_Your daughter Johanna _

She did not understand the meaning of those words in her head, but something seemed to move in her heart, the heart that was separate, alone, shut off by that veil of mist that engulfed her whole. Something moved in her and she stood up. This was not a letter from that man who loved her, whom she despised for twisting and warping that word, "love", until it was barely recognizable; this was a letter that brought that dear pair of eyes to her mind, the pair of deep brown eyes that soothed her like a caress when she screamed and thrashed.

She stood up, and moved forward, swaying from side to side. Right, left, right, left, like a drab metronome. A metronome, counting the beats in a tune she could sing in her sleep, but never remember. A tune that she came to associate with the feel of something smooth, black and white, beneath her fingers. Right, left, right, left. The old janitor slipped in, and she slipped out, quietly. She moved along the hallways, the floor at her bare feet wet with water; or, perhaps, it was tears, or blood, or something worse and more terrifying; She clutched the letter in her hand, moving forward like a broken marionette, hitting walls and corners, bruises blossoming on her skin like purple flowers.

She heard shuffling behind her, but she did not turn. An old feeling had risen in her chest, warmth had spread from the fingers carrying the letter, now scrunched in her trembling fist, an old feeling she had come to associate with those deep brown eyes that shone when the world had no light to offer her.

_Let her go, _she heard someone say. _…Let her out anyway…_loose words, with no sense. Well, only some sense. They presented no hostility to her, she would not have to fight. Her feet carried her forward, autonomous, irresponsive. If she had willed them to stop, they wouldn't have.

The door swung open, and she walked out. Cold air hit her with a blast, the rain beat down on her in sheets. She swayed, side to side, like that accursed metronome she could not remember, she swayed, her feet splashing in the rain puddles.

_Maybe one day I will embrace you. _Maybe one night, one dark night, they would set out to find the moon.

And maybe, whoever it was that had those deep brown eyes, would be with her too. _Don't I know you? _She whispered. The rain answered as it always did, in its unintelligible sound of falling water.

The memories, broken and irrational, came and came; she let them wash over her like foamy sea waves wash over pebbles. She closed her eyes and walked forward, and forward, the rain running down her face, hands, and body; she closed her eyes, and as her hands loosened, the letter fell to the floor.

The black water from the puddle seeped into the paper and dissolved the black ink.


	21. Snegurochka Sarafan

Do you like folk tales?

XXII. Snegurochka Sarafan

_Once upon a time, there were an old man and woman. They lived well, and were happy, but for one thing: they had no children. And when the cold winter came, the neighborhood children would run out to play in the snow, and the old man and woman looked at them, and a sad longing filled their hearts. _

The roads were slippery, wet. She wondered when the carriage would turn over and send her bouncing over the cobble-stoned street. All she could think about was her grandmother's voice.

When she had been small, her grandmother would tell her fairytales before she went to sleep. But unlike her brother, she only wanted to hear one story every night, and no matter how many times she would hear it, she would never tire of it. Even now, she heard her grandmother recite the story in her mind.

_So they decided to make a daughter from snow. They went out into the winter day, and started building her – a head, hands, feet…when she was finished, they stood and watched, and suddenly, her lips became pink, her eyes sparkled. She moved her head, her arms, and shook off the snow; out stepped a girl, real and alive. _

She left the carriage and walked down the street on her own. She would walk back to the house, the house she would never call home. The hem of her dress soaked up black water that ran in the street with the rats and carriage wheels. When she got back, her father would probably be snoring by the fire, an unread book in his lap. Her father hated reading, but always pretended he loved it. He had piles of philosophy on his table, the same old book by Voltaire in his lap while he snored, he book for which his scant English was no match, and yet in private he would read forbidden poems by outlaws such as Lermontov, and she was probably the only one who could sneak up on him quietly enough to catch him reading the poem for which Lermontov was deported to Caucasus as valuable cannon fodder.

When she got home, perhaps she would catch her father packing his bags, his eyes alight with excitement, saying her brother wrote to them to say they had sorted their debts and gotten back their mansion, with all the serfs and possessions intact. It was a hope she felt diminish every day. Too good to be true. Her grandmother's voice continued to tell her the story, the story that always succeeded in soothing her troubles.

_The girl grew quickly, almost by the hour, and became more and more beautiful every day, a fair braid to her waist, her skin pale as snow. She was clever, thoughtful, good with her hands and dear to everyone she met; if she sang, one could not stop listening; if she worked, she worked well. And yet, as the winter passed, here came spring: the grass grew green on the patches of earth where the snow melted, the larks began to sing. And the warmer it became, the more Snegurochka became sad. _

The larks sang in London, too, perhaps; perhaps it snowed sometimes. And yet, it would never be the same snow. It would never sound the same when the birds sang here. Nothing tasted the same, nothing looked the same – even if it was the same things she saw and heard.

She stopped to look around. Why were the buildings unfamiliar? Where had she ventured? She looked behind her, and saw the dark alley along which she had, unknowingly, been walking. A shiver traveled down her spine. This was no village where everyone knew each other. This wasn't even the bright, gold-topped city she knew. This was London. She shivered again. She was lost. Rubbing her hands together, she looked right and left, wondering how she could have gotten there. Opposite her stood a pie shop, and beside it she could see a staircase leading upwards, a doorway marked with a barber's red-and-white sign.

_Snegurochka grew sadder by the day, and always hid from the sun, always wanted to be somewhere cool, and she was happiest when it rained. One day, the dark purple clouds got together and hail began to fall. Snegurochka was so happy, she ran out into the yard and caught the hailstones in her hands, and to her, they looked like pearls; when the hail was over and the little balls of ice melted, she wept bitterly, as if crying over a dear brother. _

A man was sitting at the foot of the stairs. He wasn't doing anything in particular, leaning onto his knees, a frown etching lines between his black eyebrows. Suddenly, he turned and looked at her square in the eyes. Instantly blushing, she looked down, down at the wet pavement. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, and then, almost too hastily, hastily enough to be deliberate, he looked at the floor, his frown even deeper, the edges of his mouth turned down. Her cheeks still burned red. Not that she'd ever stay here, and he looked too old – and yet, he was attractive. Perhaps she would ask him how to get there. Even so, there was something menacing about him, that kept her feet rooted to the spot.

_One day, Snegurochka's friends came to ask her to join them for a walk in the woods. After eventide came, and the girls had picked berries and mushrooms, they started playing around the fire. Each girl would take her turn to jump over the fire, over the dancing flames…_

When she said that, her grandmother's own eyes would seem to twinkle in the fire of the bedroom hearth, and she would imagine her when she was young, her own braid coming down to below her waist, running down with sugar in her pockets to give to the horses in the stable.

No matter how much she lingered, thinking of her grandmother and her fondness for horses, she realized that unless she wanted to remain lost until midnight, she would have to ask for directions, and this man seemed like the only one whom she wouldn't have to run after. Londoners seemed to be in some sort of permanent hurry. As she approached the man, he did not notice her: his attention was elsewhere; in fact, his head turned to the right, and whatever he saw there made his brows unclench and his eyes soften.

She squinted, trying to see what he saw. She gasped lightly and pressed her hand to her mouth in pleasure. Grey against grey, she hadn't noticed him at first – the little grey kitten that wobbled side to side, making its way along the road, its tiny paws slightly wet.

The man she had first perceived as menacing was looking at the kitten with the eyes of a young boy. It swayed from side to side, and he reached out hesitantly, and stroked it once on the head. A while later, the kitten settled at his feet, and he stroked its tiny head with his fingers; she could imagine it purring with its little eyes squeezed shut.

To simply address him and ask for directions would be rather banal. He was too absorbed in the purring bundle of fur at his feet to notice her approach him. And yet, when she, too, kneeled, and stroked the kitten, he looked up, and looked her in the eyes. Something flickered there, he seemed to teeter on the edge of speech, opened his mouth slightly, and then shook his head, allowing that frown to crease his forehead once again. He turned back to stroking the kitten. It seemed to her that he was purposefully trying to ignore her. Any indignation was overpowered by her curiosity.

_The girls danced around the fire, and Snegurochka with them. Round and round the fire, and then one by one, the girls, braids jumping along their backs as they ran, jumped over the fire, over the crackling flames they had lit in the clearing. Now Snegurochka ran, closer and closer to the fire…_

"Excuse me," she paused slightly. She hoped he wouldn't laugh at her accent. Laugh…quite an irrational fear, seen as this man seemed to have forgotten how to laugh, how to smile. His eternal expression seemed to be a deep frown that had etched deep lines in his skin. "sir…I'm lost…Do you happen to know the way to High Holborn?"

He frowned, and watched the kitten for a while, which was playing with his shoelaces.

"God's creature," she said, smiling as she watched its tiny paw toy with the laces. "Doesn't wish anyone harm."

Her words did not seem to have an effect on him, except, perhaps, for a minor raising of the eyebrows. "I…I will show…you…" She cocked her head to the side and observed him, observed him curiously. He seemed to make a tremendous effort to say those few four words…his voice was slightly cracked, very low, and it seemed like it had been silent for a long time. Suddenly, he turned at looked at her, straight in the eye again, and his eyes seemed to turn sad.

"Is something wrong?" It wasn't an intelligent question. Perhaps it would have been more realistic to ask him if anything was right.

"You…" he paused, and looked back down at the kitten, which was now rubbing its tiny black nose against his hand, which hung limply at his side. "Remind…me of…of someone…let me..let me show you…" he gave the kitten one last stroke, and stood up, motioning to her to follow him.

They walked in silence, and she had not imagined otherwise – and as usual, in her instinct to break the ice, even with a person she had never known and would never know, she was the first to speak. She had learnt her lesson with her quiescent brother.

"Who did I remind you of, sir?"

Neither was this an intelligent question.

_Snegurochka ran towards the fire, watching the flames licking upwards, upwards…_

"Someone…" she instantly regretted asking him. His voice was broken, from misuse, and from some kind of inner torment. Her mother's voice had been like that when she asked her to stay. Not to leave home. Not to leave her. Not to leave forever, for it could be so. She was not in perfect health. "Someone long…gone…" his voice made it clear that he no longer wished to pursue the subject.

_Snegurochka jumped over the flames, and as she flew over the fire, her friends watched as she disappeared in a puff, disappeared into thin air, evaporated into a white cloud that hung above the flames. Her friends shouted, "Aou! Aou! Snegurochka! Aou!" And yet, she had vanished; all that answered them was the echo of the forest._

One of the reasons she had so loved this story, was because she had always been a dreamer. She had loved to think. To analyse. To recall. To reminisce. She had always liked to think, for hours after her grandmother had blown out the candle, about how the old man and woman felt. What they did. Could anyone – anything – ever replace Snegurochka for them? And did the December snow remind them of her laughter, echoing, bouncing off the pine trees, of her feet crunching on the white carpet of the forest floor; did they grow to hate winter as an eternal reminder of a child they once had? Did this man see this kitten, see her, and remember some time long lost, some time when the person she reminded him of, the person the kitten reminded him of, was by his side?

"We met…she bent down to touch a kitten, and I…"

"You do not have to continue, sir, its alright. Forgive me for prying."

An awful paradox. It seemed that it was so hard to keep pain bottled up, and yet so hard at the same time to let it come to the surface, to talk. To talk…

_The cloud soared up above the trees, and ever since then, Snegurochka traveled over the land, watching over the old man and woman that were her parents, watching over the trees and the berries, the mushrooms and the flowers, the seasons, and hail and the snow, the snow of which she had come…_

When she got home, after she would thank the man, look once more into his eyes and try to understand what hid beneath the surface, she would take out the old sarafan her grandmother gave her. The Snegurochka sarafan. Perhaps she would walk in it down the street, singing about the thin birch and ryabina tree.

Singing about home.


	22. Quod He

XXIII. Quod He

«Move closer, I cannot see your face properly.»

His smoke-engulfed companion seemed nervous, and he imagined the little man squinting through the dense layer of smoke. He laughed. And as he laughed, he knew his laugh would seem to be muted by the ever-prevalent mist, and that to his little companion, it would sound like a light chuckle. After deliberating for a while, sucking on the end of his pipe, he answered. «You aren't supposed to, mister. And always call me 'sir', did I not tell you?» People with no manners irritated him. Not that he respected manners himself. He snorted to himself in the dark.

«You...you have no right...sir...»

«But I do...» he chuckled again, sucking on his pipe. The smoke swirled upwards, in haunting spirals, like effervescent snakes charmed by the low hum of conversation. Giving up, his companion slouched back in his armchair: he followed the motion of his small, thin body as it eased backwards. Thin like a rat's tail.

«What price are you prepared to pay? There is a lot here, and of good quality.» Once again, he laughed to himself. His companion's voice had a note of false confidence, of pretentious calm. He could hear the nerves beneath the quiet words.

«Well, my friend, 'a lot' is a subjective description. Don't you agree?» He did not allow him to respond, but continued. It was a rhetorical question. He usually valued no opinion but his own. "I have a lot of money, as you know, but even so it doesn't mean it is easier for me to part with it…I wonder what you need the money for. A woman?"

The little man snorted at this statement, with something that sounded like a mixture of derision and fear. He thought he knew what kind of comment to expect from the likes of him.

"Women? What does…"

"A sodomite like me know about women?" he finished. He could almost imagine the slack jaw, the wide eyes, the surprise on that little man's bony face when he had spoken. He, once again, did not wait for the response. "People like me, contrary to popular belief, my friend…" – he sucked on his pipe a little, stretching the silence, feeling it spiral around the little table they sat at – "know quite a lot about women, which is the reason we stay away from them."

"But…"

"If you do have a lot of spare time to waste, my friend, I could tell you about my…" the smoke blew out of his mouth in little puffs, and when he rounded his lips into a perfect 'o', little rings rose into the misty air. "Lorelei…" Did it matter? Talking about it, about her, would help him lie to himself. Lie that it did not pertrube him.

«An unusual name,» remarked his bony companion. He could hear him shifting in his seat. He was interested.

«I only called her such, and she did not object. She never revealed her real name to me.» He could hear the thin man draw closer to the edge of his seat, pricking up his ears, listening to his every word.

He sighed deeply, inhaling, savouring the smoke on his tongue, and began to speak. "As you probably have found out, through those people you call your friends, I am of German blood...on my dear mother's side. She was the daughter of a German count and some rich Bavarian landowner. Well, I had often traveled there, and once, two years ago, when I was in Bavaria, I thought I found the love of my life...» Beautiful words, they were. _Love, eternity..._All lies were beautiful. «Her hair was red as her eyes: well, one could call them a 'light cherry brown', but they were red. Crimson almost. She wore a vernal green gown, with a long trail, fit for a bride, and my first ambition was that she would be mine – that I would replace the red rubies encircling her ring finger with my own diamonds and gold. I unceasingly strove to please her, covered her with all the jewels my money could buy, from head to toe…I sincerely intended to marry her, though she did not show me her affections – she laughed and sang, she showered me with thanks, uttering mysterious phrases, the meaning of which I could not understand – and thus she beguiled me, forcing me to believe in the lie I lived - yes, she was cleverer than me, she understood the rules of the game she played far better than I. So, the young fool I once was bought her a diamond engagement ring, and I positioned myself at the door of her house. I don't remember how long I stayed there – my feet felt numb from sitting on my knee all that time. More than one person passing the house laughed at me and my ridiculous position. And then, she slipped out of the house, clad in a burgundy velvet dress I had bought for her, with a young gentleman – a German – she laughed with him, kissed him, just as she had done with me. I returned to her residence at sunset, and confronted her – if she were prepared to use me as a tool for her entertainment, I would not stand for it – neither would I tolerate her little excuses and explanations, hysterics and pleading – I was inexorable as death. She didn't continue her pathetic spectacle, in which she even threw herself down at my feet... She stood up, composed, conceited, and began to laugh:

'Do you think I ever took any man seriously? Did you think you would, with your English pride and superficial airs, bind me to you for life? Ha! Can you order the sea to obey your every behest? Can you make time stop, tide await your passing? No, so do not hope to tame me, to bind me to your heart, for you shall never bind a wild soul, you can never rid it of its liberty! I am freedom itself, _fraulein freiheit! _I have used you, you had your use, you were my pivot of amusement!' He had not noticed himself, that his voice had risen far above the quite level of murmuring in the room; he had not noticed how a few heads had turned his way. He had not noticed that he was speaking so passionately about a woman. Speaking about a woman, when he was in love with a man.

«I could have struck her, I could have, but I couldn't move a muscle, twitch an eyelid. All I could say, was, 'Stay away from me.' I could still hear her silvery laugh as I turned on my heel and left – and little did I know this was her suicide note to me, her final word, pronounced with such audacity that one would scarcely think she were doomed. The following morning I read, in the newspaper, that Lorelei was dead – she was found, drowned, in the _Donau _River. She left a young child, a blond little boy, whom she termed to be my son…It is possible that he was...I had to leave for a significant amount of time, during which she could have...But no, I refused to take him on, in a bout of fury. The child did resemble me very much..." He paused for a while, smoking, smoking. "When I returned to England, I met him. He took away everything, every worry, every fear, every regret, from my mind. It is an unrequited love, my friend...he, sadly, is the type that loves only women, but nevertheless it is a requited friendship. It was enough every day for me to simply meet the man I loved.»

«Who is he?» His companion's voice sounded slightly choked up.

«A highly esteemed man. A lawyer. Auburn hair, stately features, blue eyes...you know how many esteemed individuals wish to do business with me, my friend. It was easy to enter his society. But I did not meet him while seeing to my...ahem...official obligations...» it was rather ironic, he thought, to call what he did 'official'. Chuckling softly, he squinted through the mist at his companion. His hand was inside his pocket. «He has a countryside residence. A pretty place just outside London. A house with an enormous window on the lowest floor; so enormous, in fact, it seems like a door. I passed by, and saw him there...he was reading in latin.» He had never heard anything more beautiful. He still remembered the words of the prayer he had been reciting.

_"Deus, Deus salutis meae: et exsultabit lingua mea justitiam tuam_...And anything said in Latin, as you know, sounds so elevated, so...aristocratic. I have often said that if something is not beautiful, it is worthless. What more could I want? He is beautiful, impeccably dressed, of high status and he speaks that beautiful language...and am I not, myself, beautiful, educated, aristocratic...as for Latin, he could teach me, could he not...»

«Ah, those prayers...It's what they all say,» said his companion. The wariness in his voice was only an echo of the fear it had been before.

«He's a paragon of virtue. Of justice. They'll appoint him as the Honourable judge any day now...you have no right to contradict me,» he said simply. «Do you not read Shakespeare? Do you not remember Juliet's line – _ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer._»

«Lips. Exactly. Those words come from the mouth, not the heart.»

«My friend, you are wiser than I thought, but I'm afraid your wisdom is not applicable here. That man...he..."

"Is surely no...no...»

«Sodomite?»

His companion, despite his newfound bravado, did not respond to that, as he had not initially. Yet, he discerned a faint stirring behind the veil of smoke that obscured his thin figure.

The thin figure that was on him in a matter of seconds, pressing him down into the chair, the bony hands around his neck. He could hear erratic coughing, and as he struggled, stars, white stars, erupted, and shimmered, before his eyes. The coughing was his own. Something sharp, sharp, cold, and deadly, was pressed against the flesh of his stomach, that had someone become exposed. The man's shallow, quick breath brushed against his cheek in a whisper. Primal fear overtook his body – his limbs shook, cold sweat seeped through his shirt. Reason calmed his mind. He had not planned to leave this smoky den. He saw no point in living a lie any longer. A beautiful, sweet, and yet bitter, lie. Such was the irony, the paradox, of life. Such was the fate of one like him. A _Sodomite. _

«Now I know who sent you. That man, with the goatee. Mitchell.»

The blade dug deeper into his flesh. The sharp point was about to pierce it. And yet, the blade shook. Sweat, beads of it, large as hailstones, cascaded off the man's bony forehead, tears of fear he had thought gone fell from his eyes. Disjointed words fell from his mouth.

«My family...I must...You...mean nothing...I must...I must...I thought...another way...»

«Do what you must do, my friend.» He himself was surprised at the calmness of his words. He realised that man had had no deal for him in the first place. Perhaps the reason that little man had not stabbed him immediately was for the same reason why he had not drowned himself after Lorelei. After he realised _he _did not love him, but only saw in him a friend, and perhaps a work companion, a financial asset. Hope. Hope that perhaps, he would get out of that smoke-filled room without blood on his hands.

A tremendous scream came with the burst of pain in his gut, a scream shrill like a woman's, shrill as he imagined Lorelei's, muted by water as his was now muted by the dense clouds of smoke and lull of quiet conversation.

He felt thick, hot liquid, liquid that would be red against his white skin, pour along his stomach. The burning threatened to overwhelm him, but he could not scream – the breath caught in his chest, as he lay, clutching his stomach, panting.

Snow.

The last image in his mind was that of snow. Smooth, untrodden, chaste snow. Cupped within the white plateau was a silver mirror of ice, sugar-encrusted trees as palatable and tempting as Bavarian sweets, surrounding it. The sun was a blue orb suspended on a string of gossamer, a string of a spider's web. The clouds, thin, whispy, like feathers, moved together, right under the sun, to form a cross.

He heard his own voice. His young voice."What could I give you? What can I give you, but my heart?"

His words could have been part of the crunch of frost beneath their unmoving feet, his and hers; part of the flapping of the wings of the tiny red robin, a crimson spot against the transparent sky, who had risen, with a cry of determination, into the blue air, towards the light.

_Lorelei, _he whispered.


	23. Eight Postcards from Russia

A chapter, from Russia with love.

Find the songs and listen to them (follow the links). It won't have the same effect if you don't listen to the music – it creates the mood for each little drabble.

This site doesn't let me post the link, so just paste what you see under the titles after youtube . com (obviously without the spaces)

Enjoy.

XXIII. Eight Postcards from Russia

_The Sun _

/watch?v=6Rmw2rM2U4Q

(by me)

_Oh, don't wake me, a young girl, _

_Early in the morning, _

_At dawn. _

"Don't wake me yet. I want to dream."

"But don't forget, Johanna. Tonight! Tonight you'll be free…"

"I will dream about that."

_Wake me then, _

_When the sun comes up. _

_When the bright sun peeks through, _

_The dew will fall, _

_On the Earth._

"Stay a while with me, wake me, wake me when the sun rises."

"But it will still be early…"

"I love the sunrise. Years of looking out of a window, and one tends to learn that the world is most beautiful in the early hours."

_The shepherd will come out _

_Onto the plain, and play the horn… _

"He will come back soon, I must leave, Johanna…"

"No, he never comes back this early."

"I know."

"How curious. Why did you say that then?"

"I wanted you to…think I was leaving…"

"So that…?"

"Kiss me."

_The Geese are flying _

/watch?v=V5tUQimjTq0

Choir

_The geese are flying, _

_The geese are flying, _

_Geese, and two ganders. _

«Missus? Jus' came ter check on ye..»

«Black crows are circling above me, Nellie. Anywhere I go...»

«Oh, come now missus...»

«The birds have flown south, except one white dove, do you see it, right there? The little thing? It's cowering, cowering beneath the echelons of circling crows...»

«Oh my God, missus, what is that in yer hand? What is that bottle?»

_Him, whom I love, _

_Him whom I love, _

_I will never see again.. _

«I used to take myself out of bed for my daughter. Work for her. Now, why must I stay? Him, I will never see him again...»

«Ye mustn't talk that way, missus, ye never know...»

«I do. It's impossible to escape. I will never see him again. Never. And I cannot bring myself to forget him.»

_My love has gone away_

_Gone away, beyond Voronezh..._

_Oh, now I cannot have him back, _

_I cannot have him back. _

"If he had gone to Scotland, or Wales, or even France…but he is gone, beyond reach, and I cannot have him back."

"Give that ter me, missus,"

"No."

_Oh, how hard, _

_How hard, _

_It is to be separated. _

_Oh, my eyes look, _

_My eyes look, _

_The tears fall. _

"My eyes hurt, Nellie. I can't look anymore. I can't breathe."

"Well, missus, I told ye ter give it ter me."

"Thank you, Nellie."

_Steppe all around_

/watch?v=SpG9sPZ7Xi4&feature=related

Choir

_Steppe all around _

_Heart is overcome with sorrow _

_A coachman is singing _

_About the wide steppe, _

_About how, in that steppe, _

_Another coachman was dying _

_And he, to his friend, _

_Was giving his order… _

"It was desert all around, all around. And he was in my arms. He was dying, there was blood everywhere. My friend. Our friend."

"I take me' at off fer 'im. Folks die all the time about 'ere, Ben, old boy."

"But…he was our friend. Your friend, too."

"Friends, foes, death knows no such words, old boy. You'll learn, ye new 'uns are all the same."

_You, my friend, _

_Forget the bad times, _

_And bury me. _

_Bury me, _

_In this quiet steppe, _

_And take the raven-black horses_

_Home. _

"If I die…"

"Ye could. Thatcher truth fer ye."

"If I die, you won't forget me, right?"

"I won't 'old nothin' against ye, old boy…I'd be sorry yer gone, mind yeh. I'm not a monster, ye know."

_Take the horses home, _

_Give them to my father, _

_And, for me, bow low, _

_To my mother. _

_To my young wife, _

_Tell her, my friend, _

_Tell her that I will not come home. _

_And also, pass her my word, _

_Give her my wedding ring. _

_Whoever is sweet to her heart, _

_Let her marry him, _

_And marry, _

_With my wedding ring. _

"And my wife, my wife, back home. If you get out…you're not here for life, are you…"

"No, another three years an' I'm out if me sorry carcass ain't in some grave."

"If you get back, find her. Please. Find her and tell her I love her and want her to be happy. If I die, give her my wedding ring. Take it off my finger before they get it."

"Hm…I suppose I could, Ben. Sure, ye 'ave me promise."

_Steppe all around _

_Heart is overcome with sorrow _

_A coachman is singing _

_About the wide steppe… _

_Not for you _

/watch?v=twBDnkSZabo

(Pelageya)

_Not for you, _

_Will come spring, _

_Not for you, _

_The river Don with spill out, _

_And the girl's heart will beat _

_With exhiliration of love, _

_But not for you. _

"He's a commoner. Have you seen him? I won't let him have anything. She will be mine, he doesn't deserve her. How dare he take what is meant for me."

"Of course, my lord, of course."

"That woman's heart will beat only for me…"

"Oh, and a tender heart it is."

_… _

_Not for you, _

_Will come Easter, _

_At the table the family will gather, _

_And the wine will flow into the glasses, _

_That life isn't for you. _

_For you, _

_A piece of lead, _

_Will pierce your white flesh, _

_And bitter tears will flow, _

_That is the life that awaits you…_

"But she does not want me. Avoids me, ignores me, tramples on the flowers I send her."

"Surely, my lord, some time…"

"She has had enough time. You see, my friend, if she is not mine, she will be no-one's. If she is not mine, I promise her she will have no family, and only bitter tears to cry."

"But my lord, the lady surely is a fool to refuse you."

"True, my friend. She is. Otherwise, why would she have married that simpleton?"

_Thin Ryabina_

/watch?v=oVvRnbpT4zg

(Lyudmila Zykina)

_Why do you stand swaying_

_Thin Ryabina – tree _

_Bowing your head _

_Right down to the earth _

"Why are you always alone, mum? Anytime I come in, you're all on your own."

"Nonsense, dear, you know I always have company."

"If 'e's smart and smilin', it don't mean 'es good company."

"Don't know what you mean, love."

_Over the road_

_Beyond the wide river_

_Just as lonely _

_Stands a tall oak _

"Why don't you go into town, mum?"

"No dear, I'd better stay here. Got work to do."

"Many lonely gentlemen out there."

"Ye don't understand a thing, love."

_How could I, the Ryabina, _

_Move over to the oak? _

_Then I wouldn't _

_Bend, and sway _

"I wonder and I wonder, what does he want? How can I…oh, bother, look what I'm doin', I've messed up all the dough."

"No matter mum, I'll eat that one."

_With my thin branches, _

_I would press close to it, _

_And I would whisper, _

_Day and night, with its leaves. _

"If 'ed only let me…how I'd take care of 'im…come on, dear, ye'll get flour all over yeself."

"No matter, mum. Flour comes off easily. Look, dust, dust, it's off!"

"That's my boy."

_But the Ryabina _

_Cannot move to the oak _

_So, such is her fate _

_To sway alone _

_For a century. _

_Not a single path crosses the field _

/watch?v=gMLK0eA45qQ

(Choir)

_Not a single path crosses the field. _

_In the field, once, there lay one path… _

_It lay, that path. _

"Have you been in the orphanage ever since you remember yourself, then, Davy?"

"Yes, Mrs. Barker."

"Hm…you never think about your parents?"

"I did once. Not any more, ma'am."

_That path, it became overgrown, _

_In that field, _

_That path, it disappeared. _

"Really? Hm, perhaps that's for the better. That way you aren't sad."

"Why would I be sad? They're gone, and I have my dreams to think about."

"You talk like a grown up, Davy."

"Thank you, ma'am."

_And now you can't, _

_You can't find that road, _

_Cannot walk on it. _

"You know you can always come back to us for help, Davy. If anything should…"

"I'll take care o'myself, ma'am."

_Spinner_

/watch?v=QhmynDdWtMw (choir) /watch?v=ABmR6r99i3U (Boris Shtokolov – a more operatic voice). Choose which one you like.

_In a low window, _

_A fire burns, _

_A young spinner, _

_Sits by it. _

"I saw her by the window, ye know. She was sitting there, leaning against the window frame…"

"Plenty 'o girls sitting by night at windows with candles."

"Oh, will you stop chewing that?"

"Leave it, Bertie, you're in love, and there's only one cure for that…oi! That hurt!"

_Young, and beautiful, _

_Brown eyes, _

_Across her shoulders, _

_A long braid of ash…_

"She seemed so young…beautiful…the deepest brown eyes, a halo of dark red curls around her head…"

"Hm…didn't know yer eyesight's so good, bro."

"I must see her again…I should invite her.."

"Ey, beautiful, 'ave a couple of stale pies…"

"You're beginning to irritate me."

"It's my job."

_Ashen head, _

_Thoughts without end, _

_What do you dream of, _

_Beautiful girl? _

"I wonder what she was thinking about…"

"How fat you are."

_Black Raven _

/watch?v=9ApaeSUqCSA&feature=related .

(Maxim Troshin)

N.B.: You will not understand this if you have not read chapter 10, «Manuela».

_Black raven, Black raven, _

_Why are you circling _

_Above my head… _

_You won't get _

_Your prey, _

_Black Raven, _

_I am not yours. _

"Why did you have to go, Manuela? Mein herz, why?"

"Sir? Who are you talking to? Would you like something?"

"I feel it in here, inside, in the middle!"

"Sir, don't grab me like that, it hurts…!"

"I won't let it take me. But I know she will win in the end."

_Fly to my land, _

_…Take the bloody handkerchief_

_To my beloved Lyubushka, _

_Tell her, tell her she is free, _

_I married another. _

"She? Who is 'she', sir?"

"Manuela. She has come back. In that room full of…them…the children…"

"Sir, let me go, there is uproar, one of the girls…she has run away with some boy!"

"Manuela? No! She did not see me! If she did, she would stay! Take this to her! It even has my blood upon it! She knows, she knows."

_The hot arrow wedded us _

_I see that my death is approaching _

_Black Raven, _

_I'm all yours! _

"I don't know what you are talking about, sir!"

"No…she could not have run away…"

"No, sir, stop, don't…help! Help!"


	24. A Train and a Bottle

This chapter is unique.

Review, review, review!

XXIV. A Train and a Bottle

I had been waiting for her for a long time. I had visited her in her bedchamber, and watched her, as she sat for long hours before the window, hearing the crack of the whip, and the sounds of a parting carriage over and over in her mind. The shot that scared the horses into motion. The wheels crunching on the gravel. Over and over, over and over in her mind.

After a while, she had acknowledged that I was there. She had acknowledged that no man would give her the comfort I would. I would never betray her. I would not even need to speak, she understood everything as soon as she realised that I was the only one.

And in time, she had begun to desire me. I saw her turning her head to look over her shoulder as she sat by the piano, tentatively...slowly...as one does when one knows a stranger has entered one's room, but still fears to discover him there...as one does when one knows the object of one's fear is there, a breath away, and yet does not know what form it will take.

That day, the day I knew she would join me, the day I knew she could wait no longer, the day he left her forever, I had gone to wait for her at the train station. There weren't many men there, in any case no man that would look me in the eyes. I remember walking onto the platform, with its humane solidity and tracing the way it dropped down to where the rusty rail-tracks lay with my eyes, tracing the intangible air above that hole, like the air above a cliff, that somehow allows one to fall faster, cutting through the mist of the morning.

As I waited for her, men, women, children, came and went, some shrugging past me like an empty space, some looking me straight in the face, some deliberately looking away, others laughing, laughing and smirking at me. I particularly remember one old man, who stopped before me and stared at me, his eyes full of knowledge, eyes calm like a huge, quite ocean, post-apocalyptic vessels of stillness. He knew me, but he did not speak. Only poets speak to me.

And there, she had come, dressed in black, a veil pinned to her bonnet. Oh yes, she had been longing for me for a long time. She had been preparing that dress for this rendezvous for weeks in her head. But only that day did she put it on. She had approached me, and I knew she was thinking of her childhood. I knew she was thinking of how she breached that airy distance between a cliff- even if it was shallow and small – and the river, the river she so joyously jumped into as a small child. And so, while she was watching me, a small smile playing on her lips, I jumped off the edge of the platform and walked over to the middle of the rail-tracks. As I had turned to face her, standing in the middle of the rail-tracks, she had smiled at me.

I remember that woman very well. I remember her now, even as I wait for another, albeit in a different place. I wait for her in her bedroom, I wait patiently, for I am sure she will come. I had been watching this woman too, ever since her wedding. I even came to her wedding to warn her. No, I am not a fatalist, though that is what one would be inclined to think. I do not believe in fate. As simple as it is, I am smarter than that woman, that woman and her husband that I have not quite yet managed to befriend. I have seen too much of the world not to detect a jealousy and posessiveness so extreme that it may lead one to sin.

The jealousy and posessiveness of a man she had refused, of a man she no longer remembered, of a man who read the announcement of her engagement and wedding with a commoner with spite and malevolence in his heart. I knew, even before it happened, that that man would not let her be happy with another. I knew that one day, he would see her somewhere, happy and content, and his being would spill over with hate. And I was right. He had seen her at the market place, holding the baby in her hands, standing next to her husband. He could not bear to see her happy with another.

I warned her at her wedding. I made that clumsy priest drop one of the rings. A bad omen? That is what she had thought, but in her ignorant bliss, she let it rest and die away in the back of her mind. That was what she had thought, although it had not been just an omen. It had been a warning. And yet, she payed me no heed. She didn't even see me.

Now, as I had done countless times before, as I had waited for countless other women in their perfumed bedrooms, I wait for her in hers. I sit on the cold side, the cold, unruffled side where her husband once slept. The cold side where his coat lies, crumpled and warm, the coat she clutches in her arms as she falls asleep, the coat she held so many times that it no longer smelled like the man who had once worn it.

As I sit on her bed, I remember that other woman, and how I had waited for her on the rail tracks as the train approached. I can hear its ear-splitting hooting even now.

I remember her as two women enter the room. Two women, of which only one of them interests me. The gold-haired woman in a black dress. A black dress, black as a crow's sooty coat, black as that woman's, that woman who had come to meet me at the train station.

The gold-haired woman stood at the window near her writing desk, and held a bottle in her hand. When would the other woman leave? That red-haired woman with the floured hands and widow's dress? She was talking about me. She was telling the gold-haired woman about me, about leaving me. In vain, in vain. My muse wouldn't betray me, just as I wouldn't betray her.

Before she came to the train station, that woman I always remember, that woman of the black hat and veil, had arranged a meeting with another. A meeting with the very man who brought her to me. Certainly, she had hoped, for _hope leaves last._ Certainly, she had hoped that he would come to her. She had hoped. That he had recieved her letter. That he had honoured her request. And yet, she willingly threw herself into my arms, and I have seen too much of the world not to see that it was desperation, desperation and destruction of the final hope of his arrival that made her finally make her choice. Me above him...for, as I have said countless times, I am not, and never have been, a traitor.

It would have been better if this woman, this golden-haired woman I look at now, standing before the window, remembering how she once had a beloved man by her side and a child bubbling with life and joy in her arms, had also gone to meet me at the train station. Perhaps, then, I would not have had to wait for her to come back to me once again. If she had chosen the train station, not a vial of glass. A train, not a bottle, as an excuse to join me.

The woman, that woman with the floured hands and red hair, she was talking about me. Telling the gold-haired woman about me, about leaving me. In vain, in vain...even more in vain as she did so half-heartedly. One could hear it in the calmness, the detachedness of her voice. She did so out of hypocritical duty, because by doing so she would wash her hands clean.

_«My eyes hurt...I can't look anymore. I can't breathe.» _She was crying, I could hear the tears in her voice. She was crying for me.

_«Well, missus, I told ye to give it ter me_...» came the woman's half-hearted reply. Half-hearted and resigned, in a way that affirmed her belief in her clear conscience. She dithered a little, and then, without further ado, turned on her heel and left.

«_Thank you...» _whispered the golden-haired woman, whispered to an empty room, an empty room that resounded with the slam of the door. Resounded with the footsteps, my footsteps, in her head. I placed my hands on her shoulders. She shivered lightly, and pressed the glass to her lips as I guided her hand like a mother would guide a spoon to her young child's mouth.

There were three empty bottles of laudanum on her bedside table. The woman of the train station, that woman of the black dress and black hat, with the black veil, she also had bottles, bottles and bottles of liquid, liquid that would send her to sleep. And yet, no liquid could give what I could give. She realised that. This woman, the woman that now walked over to the bed and lay down, lay down to wait, and countless others, had realised that. This woman that left me, abandoned me, though not of her own willing.

As I stare at her, frothing at the mouth and writhing, as I see the doctor bend over her, I remember the other woman walking onto the platform. Seeing me there, and smiling widely, closing her eyes, and remembering. Remembering how she would dive into the water, into the lake, how she would imagine she had wings in that short flight between the edge and the cool surface she would break and swim into...

And as she remembered, she flung herself at me, spreading her arms wide like the wings of a black swan, flying into my embrace. Oh, how happy I was then. How I fume now, now that my golden haired muse has left me.

«_No!_» I yell, «_No, No, No, damn it!», _as she lies, breathing, shallowly perhaps, but breathing – breathing! – on her lonely bed. A soft wind blows on her, on her fevered brow, on her wet hair, as I storm out of the room, as I slam the door, as I pace the room beyond it. Will she think about me again? Will she wonder about the wind that moves the curtains, like it moves the marshes on a windless day? No, she is out of my reach now.

True, I have power. But do I have authority? There is a stark contrast, an immense difference, between power and authority. Authority is the ability to influence. It is a status that allows one to persuade almost anyone to to do anything, and yet to persuade them to do it willingly. Some say that I do not have authority. And yet, what is authority compared to power? The ability to make someone do the same something, even _against their will? _

Even so, does one not want more? Does one not want authority, _and _ power? For when they come to me willingly – when they lie at my fleshless feet, when they beg me for release, when they jump into my embrace from the platform of a provincial station...dressed all in black, just for me...is that not so much more satisfactory?

As I walk away, I put my hands in my pockets.

I can feel dust, dust from the train station prickle my fingers.

I smile widely.


	25. View from the treetop

No More EXAMS! *jumps up and down, screams and generally goes bananas*

And…reviews please! Especially for the last chapter…like to know what you think

Enjoy :-)))

XXV. View from the treetop

"Just please, please don't make a fool of yerself again. Please." Indeed, if _this_ went wrong, he felt his face would remain permanently red for the rest of his life.

"Again? When was the last time I made a fool of myself?"

"Sorry, my mistake. You cannot _make _a greater fool of yourself than you are." He prepared to duck his friend's podgy hand, knowing it would fly at him any second. And yet, whether because he was too proud or unwilling to start a fight that would invariably end with rolling in the wet soil they stood on, he simply contented with glaring. Venomously.

"All right, buddy, just listen: if thou dithereth much longer-" he made a flourish with his hand, "Thy lady in the tower, she will find some man better-"

"She is _not _my mistress, she…"

"…and the letters, that thou sent, adorned with mould-"

"There is no _mould _in my shop!"

"Sure, what was that green fur I ate yesterday? Was it a monster kitten in pastry? It almost made my mother's cooking taste good in comparison…"

This time, he had to duck the flying arm. Straightening up, he looked at the fuming eyes, that could frighten one if not for the hint of a well-suppressed laugh at the corners of the lips. If someone looked at the two of them, they would find no pair of friends less alike; one exceedingly thin, freckled and black-haired, quick, like a fox; the other resembling a formless sea creature, in the worst possible physical condition, with a bald patch glistening on the back of his head in his few twenty-five years; if one listened to the two of them, especially in a moment as this, one might think they were two brothers who saw their brotherhood as some sort of incurable disease, rather than a pair of staunch friends.

"Sorry, pal. But honestly, you need a-"

"Woman to make anyone set foot in my shop?"

"Yes."

"Fine."

"All right, so, you give me a leg up, as I'm a quarter of your size –" he ducked the hand again – the blow made a swooshing sound in the air. It sounded as if it could break a few bones. "And I climb up, find the perfect spot, and then you can get up there before your muse decides to retire to-"

"Your tongue will earn you a broken nose sometimes…"

"And your cooking will earn you a nice trip to the gallows for poisoning someone with your-"

"I might as well be the one to break your nose-"

"And I might be the one to send you to that nice old noose – I'd be a good citizen and save some people from poisoning. That stuff even kills the rats-"

A great deal of sudden rustling told him to prepare to duck – perhaps even curl up on the ground like a baby – as his infuriated friend, all romantic thoughts forgotten and stored away, advanced towards him through the bush, rolling up his sleeves. Having friends such as that and a mouth such as his was only compatible with wearing chainmail and medieval armour all day long.

"You, I'll show you-"

He stopped short. A voice, a song, carried from somewhere above them.

_See, see, mine own sweet jewel, _

_See what I have here for my darling: _

Undoubtedly, the song carried from the window above to where they stood, listening; from _her _window. Her, whom his friend dreamed about every night, talking about every waking minute. Her voice was rather peculiar, not what one would call beautiful – it had a slightly yawning quality to it, and the song sounded strangely warbled by the cockney accent. And a prominent accent it was. Sometimes, he wondered what his friend saw in her. Sometimes, he wondered, if she would see anything in him. They made for a good pair, but a rather impossible one at the same time.

"Hurry up, maitre cuisiniere!", he said, trying to take his mind off her. They disturbed him, these thoughts. _Maitre Cuisiniere _– purposefully, of course – allowed his foot to slip slightly from his joined palms and made him cling to the jagged tree trunk with raw hands.

_A robin-redbreast and a starling. _

_These I give both, in hope to move ye – _

_And yet you say I do not love ye…_

When he had climbed high enough to see her standing with her back turned to the window, he gave his friend the signal, who began clambering up the tree as noisily as was possible. If she had not been singing, she might have called the constable for the commotion he made.

_And yet you say I do not love ye…_

An all-too-audible sigh prompted him to camouflage himself a little better within the foliage of the tree – of which, luckily, there was plenty – for some reason he could imagine this woman, who stood now, with her back to him, her hair loose and in disarray, swinging an axe, or some heavy object, his way. Perhaps opposites do not attract after all.

"I think you should keep quiet." He could not be rid of the image of that woman with an axe. Or a knife. Or some nightmarish implementation of the sort.

"Look who's talking."

"Hmph."

"I climbed up a tree to see her. Just to see her. Won't she love it?"

"If you pronounced those last two words the way I think you did, that was a very bad joke." (1)

"Joke's on you."

He opened his mouth to snap back at him, but stopped short. Hidden as he was by the dense foliage, the window they stared into was quite wide, and he could see a good portion of her room if he tilted his head to the side...he could see her, clear as day, standing in the middle of the room, swaying with the song she no longer sang...

"Just you look at her…isn't she beautiful…" all arguments forgotten, his friend leaned forward onto the tree trunk, and he knew what the expression on his face would be. His little eyes would be clouded, his mouth half-open in a smile, his eyebrows raised...

She stood with her back to the window, to them, wearing only a plain, white nightgown, with bare arms and shoulders, her hair gathered on top of her head in a messy, frazzled bun. She was thin, but seemed big-boned; her shoulder blades stood out, thrown into relief by the meager light.

The skin on her back, shoulders and arms was rather sallow, he thought, and he imagined in would be dotted with pale, barely noticeable freckles; her hair was more auburn than red, though in the light of her lone candle, it seemed to be the colour of blood.

A while ago, he imagined her wielding an axe, or a knife; now, he imagined her with a rolling pin, flour in her hair, and his friend by her side; suddenly, he could picture their faces together, picture a merry baby in her arms. Perhaps it would all happen.

"You know, I always thought you were hopeless, but…"

His calm tone of voice seemed to sober his friend. Without turning, he answered, with the same tranquility.

"I always believed you, even if I argued with you till I dropped."

"A good friend thinks you're a good egg, even if you're slightly cracked."

They chuckled together at that, and it seemed that their soft laughter moved the leaves on the trees they sat on. The breeze blew into her room, and the candle flickered. Flickered, but remained burning, her hair still red, blood red.

Suddenly, he heard his friend gasp, and then stiffen suddenly. She had walked to the side to face a large standing mirror, and stood there, with her cloud of blood red hair, with a necklace of cheap red beads hanging from her hand. As she raised her hands, the beads slid down her sinewy arm and remained hanging from the crook of her elbow, like droplets of blood on a string.

Her index finger slipped under the straps of her nightgown, lifted it, and so she allowed it to fall to the floor, the white material pooling like foam about her feet. His friend was now trembling in earnest.

"Calm down, old boy. You'll bring the tree down."

She now slipped the necklace on, and it reached down to her breasts, lay there like pearls of blood. Her red hair flamed in the darkening room, and her lips were crimson. He thought, for a moment, that if she looked up, her eyes would be red, too. Red, like her hair, like her necklace, like _blood. _

She moved back, back from the mirror, arching and twisting her body like a snake, a snake that could stand, a snake that was, millennia ago, cursed to crawl for evermore on its belly. And yet, she defied the curse, she arched, left and right, moving backwards. barely lifting her bare feet off the ground.

Suddenly, his friend made the mistake of leaning forward a little too much, and his foot slipped off the branch he had set it on, causing it to crack, leaving him hanging off the tree, hugging the bark for support. His podgy body swayed comically, to and fro, as he struggled to get back into a sitting position on an adjacent branch. Frightened as he was of his friend's object of affection, and still unable to rid his mind of the image of her wielding a studded rolling pin, he hid as well as he humanly could, in the foliage. It tickled his cheeks.

By no means deaf, she turned round, grabbing her nightgown to cover her nakedness. Her eyes were not red, not red as he imagined them to be. They seemed to have no colour at all, in fact, and their darkness moved over the tree, over the man with the red face, clinging for dear life to the branches. Perhaps the eye contact encouraged his recklessness. It was hard to understand his emotions. This way or another, without further ado, he swung himself over to her windowpane, with surprising agility, and hauled himself into the room.

They stood there, eyes locked, for a few seconds. Or, perhaps, it was a whole hour. Or a year. He did not know. Then, she spoke. And as she did, the ice didn't break. It seemed to get even colder.

"You should leave."

His friend seemed to have turned into a statue. He stood, speechless, looking at her, and he could see he was trying to keep his eyes on her face, not fix them on there where the crimson beads shone like a beautiful wound. Where the creases of the nightgown she held against her body parted to reveal her skin, beneath which her blood would flow. Red, as those beads, red as her hair. And as he stared, something changed in her face, in her features. Her eyes became sharp. Narrowed. Angry. Her mouth creased at the edges.

"Did you…see me?" She gestured at the mirror.

He nodded.

She contemplated him for a second, her chest, her chest with the blood red beads, rising and falling, in anger, and indignation.

She slapped him.

The sound was like a crack of a horseman's whip in the darkness. A small firework. An echo in the night. Her hand shot up, once again, and his friend flinched, before feeling her touch on his reddened cheek. The nightgown had fallen to the floor once again. Pulling his face towards her, she kissed him. She kissed his friend. Full on the mouth. He wondered what it tasted like, to kiss her. His friend would probably tell him, tomorrow, that it tasted like berries, or like sugar…but he would always imagine that it tasted like blood.

Trying to make as little noise as possiblehe slipped down from his branch, and set off homeward. Into the dark, away from her candle.

1 Hmm, thats quite a give away.


	26. My Quiet Abode

This chapter is for _MoonlitSerenity_, because she also gave this minor ST character recognition in her writing.

- Elena

XXVI. My Quiet Abode

Yesterday, the sky had been dark when he returned home, and he had thought, just as he always did, that yesterday would be the day when his friend would no longer be able to stand up and light the candle by the lone blackened window.

He had found him, indeed, sprawled on the floor, unable to move, and he had rushed to his aid, lifted him up into his wheelchair. Then, they had talked. They always talked, when there was nothing else to do, and indeed, it was the best pastime, even if words were so scorned among men for being superficial.

They had talked about the old days, when they had played tennis together. The days, when they had written love letters together, to girls they had seen run about in the streets, love letters they never sent, or, perhaps, some that they sent, some that were replied to, some that lay down in the history of their lives.

They had talked about the old days, the days when he had played Mozart on his violin while tap dancing on their old parquet. They talked about the old days, the old days when they had been like stallions racing across fields, hair rippling in the wind, stumbling over molehills.

Alas. Time had flown faster than the hands of a clock strike a second; they had dissolved into the night air that seemed to dog London from morning to eventide. Now, they no longer ran, and they had forgotten what green was, and that it had once been more than just a colour, but a home. Now, the one came home to the other, and they talked like good neighbours about the days when they had been brothers. Sometimes, he noticed the childish thoughts that flitted through his mind at the sight of the wheelchair. He thought he'd tie bird wings to his feet, he'd wrench the wheelchair out from under him and he would stand, fly, fly like Hermes had flown, in his winged sandals. Only his would be winged feet.

Yesterday, when he had come back, and he had talked to his friend, they had laughed, and heartily. They had not talked about the old days. They had talked about rainy London, and they had laughed at its inhabitants. Particularly one.

"Some chap who says he's Italian, though I won't believe a word of it," he had told his friend, who had laughed in response.

"You know what, man, if all this we hear of nowadays is true, we have a good million different nationalities walking around this place. Heh, who'd swap sunny South of France for this hell-hole? One'd have to be mad…"

"Perhaps they are sick of the sun, as much as we are sick of the rain,"

"Perhaps," his friend had said, scratching his unshaven chin. He had disappeared into thought for a while, and then turned an inquisitive eye onto him. "By the by, have you seen my face lately? Its covered in grayish black stubble, and that won't do next to your classy cleanness, will it?"

"That's what I was talking about…"

His friend had roared with laughter. "That Italian? Don't joke with me, old boy, I don't want to get scalped," he had said, still chuckling. Indeed, he had thought his friend had a point. That man spent more time lying that he did looking at his customers while he shaved them.

"True, my friend, but I foresaw that," he had said, wagging a finger, "I must say I meant the mysterious man who beat him in their contest…a certain new barber in Fleet Street."

At this, his friend had looked sobered, and had abruptly stopped laughing. His face had set in a second, and yet there had been no trace of any negative emotion; only an odd look of completion, satisfaction. 'Fleet Street,' he had said. Quietly.

"Yes, indeed, he shaved the man without a single nick in less than a few seconds!"

"Few have such skill," his friend had sighed, and he had wondered at his sudden turn of mood. Perhaps, now he thought about it, he should have asked. If he had asked, perhaps things would have been different. And yet, moods and feelings were not pushed subjects of discussion; if they came up naturally, so be it; if not, let them rest. "You should take me to him. Right away. This stubble is beginning to irritate me."

He looked at the sky, which was tinged red with the last vestiges of light from the setting sun. "Sometimes, you know, my friend, I believe in fate. No, no," he had said, as he had stood up from his wheelchair. "I will not fall again. My strength is very much restored. And Fleet Street is a short way away. I will only have to go there, you see."

"Ah…of course, I shall collect you…I could come in a carriage…"

"No, my friend. That's not what I meant. The journey from there, I doubt I'll need a carriage."

Taking that literally, he had smiled. "Very well, but if you are too long, I will come…"

At this, his friend had approached him, and gripped him by the shoulders. "As I said, sometimes I believe in fate, and sometimes I don't. This makes me think that all fate is kismet. Coincidence. So, perhaps, in this instance, coincidence has granted me something I have wanted for a long time."

As much as he thought, as much as he tried to figure out what his friend had meant on the last time he had seen him, he couldn't. He had walked away surprisingly quickly, and in his surprise he had forgotten to ask.

And yet, all that night, as he sat by the darkening window, long after night had settled and the candle had burned to the quick, he had thought about that barber, that barber that he had approached that afternoon and asked if he had his own establishment. He remembered his rancorous expression, and how the woman with him had answered instead of him. That woman, the pie-maker. Was she his wife? He brushed that thought aside – they had looked nothing like a couple. One could sense these things.

All that night, as he waited for his friend, who never came back, he had stared at the empty wheelchair, at the grey woolen shawl that had lain on his friend's frail shoulders. He had thought about fate and coincidence, and about how the morning brings hope.

And now, as he remembered, as he watched the sun rise, he hoped that his friend would return. Even after he had gone into town, to Fleet Street, made all necessary inquiries, and received no useful information, he still hoped, that his friend would return.

Had he known the barber? Had his friend known him? It had seemed so. But if his friend knew, then he only guessed, for he still did not know; why had he been drawn to approach him, to speak to him, to see him up closer, at the crowded market? Perhaps, when his friend returned, he would ask him. For he still hoped he would return.

Return to the quiet house with the candle by the window.

Return, to their quiet abode.


	27. Dear David

The _Mary Celeste _is a famous 'ghost ship'; it was discovered by the crew of the _Dei Gratia _in December 1872 in the Atlantic Ocean, unmanned and abandoned for unknown reasons. The crew was never seen or heard from again.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

XVII. Dear David

"Hey, John! John!"

He could not tear his eyes off the ship, the ship he stared at intently, the ship in which his experienced mariner's eye had detected something strangely wrong.

"What is it?" His second officer had run up to him, and was scrutinizing the waters. The sea was uncharacteristically calm; so calm, in fact, that it resembled a vast expanse of mirror glass rather than water.

Wordlessly, he handed him the spyglass.

"Well, it's a…hm, something's wrong with that girl," he said, squinting into the glass, the skin around his eyes wrinkling and creasing. Like the sea… "Yawing slightly, and her sails are torn…I say we tell the captain, Johnson, see what he thinks. No good sailin' around with torn up sails like that, she'll bowl over in any storm."

"Looks like she's drifting. Strange, we'd think we'd have seen the distress signal…John, call the captain."

Captain Morehouse decided it was best to investigate the matter; a fellow vessel should never be allowed to be left in distress if one has the opportunity to help. Here, only the Captain was responsible. The Captain leaves the boat last. This was the sea. This was a different life altogether. Different rules. It made a difference, that it was not land, but water, dark, bottomless water, beneath your feet.

The wind whipped up the waves a little, slowly, and soon enough, as the ship inched closer to the abandoned, strange vessel, the sea began looking more and more like its old self. The name on the hull was rather dull, but visible. She was an old ship, an old, familiar ship. Especially to their Captain.

"Mary Celeste…my good old mate Briggs must be on there, come on, let's send a team to investigate. Surely nothing could be…" The captain stopped abruptly. His expression hardened, his brows contracted above his eyes, as they swept the deck of the ship, now clearly visible in its vicinity. It was completely empty, with a look about it that seemed to say it had been abandoned for more than a few hours. Perhaps more than a few days. The ship, oblivious to all, just yawed on, back and forth, in an endless rhythm.

The ship was old, and though obviously painted over and over, refurbished and tweaked, polished and scrubbed, it still bore the hallmarks of an aging vessel. There were no signs of violence; the only thing that seemed overtly amiss was the light tearing of the sails that swayed in the breeze, uncharacteristically light for open sea, back and forth, while the masts creaked benignly, swaying in rhythm with the ship. An old pipe lay in the middle of the quarterdeck; when John sniffed it, he smelled tobacco, not quite fresh and yet not stale. The two Johns made their way into the belly of the ship, which was just as deserted as the rest. The silence weighed on their ears. There had been a woman on board: a pair of lady's gloves lay upon one of the tables, and a bobbin of silk rested on a spindle of a spinner. _A woman on board is bad luck, _any superstitious seaman would say.

John – John Johnson – contemplated the gloves for a while, scratching his chin. "John, why'd you think they say a woman on board's bad luck?"

"Well," he said, staring at the same gloves, "I suppose it's just one of those superstitions…sailing's for the men, isn't it?" He chuckled, still looking at the lace details on the white gloves. "A woman can be bad luck on land too, let alone at sea…"

"The ladies wouldn't like to hear you talking like that, John, old boy,"

"Well, to be honest, methinks it's got to do with the ship itself being a _she_."

"A woman?"

"Yes…have you not noticed? A ship is always referred to as a woman…most ships are even given women's names…hah, look at this one – _Mary Celeste…_and if the ship's a woman, mate, a woman with a woman is bad news…"

"Why?"

"Well, because they say that true friendship between women doesn't really exist…so I suppose a woman on a ship is bad luck…"

"Enough woman talk…what if thinking about a woman on board is also bad luck," he said, picking up a glove and shaking it.

"Well then, my friend, all ships in the history of seafaring would have gone down." They laughed, the two Johns, and set off to explore the rest of the abandoned ship.

It seemed like it had been cleared in a hurry; writing paper and pen with unfinished words lay carelessly tossed aside, clothes and coffers of books…

"Hey, John, I think pirates are out of the question. Come 'ere."

John Johnson saw his second officer bent over a set of open drawers. Drawers full of jewels and other valuables. "Yes, well, the captain confirmed that much…there's tons of cargo in the back and it's all untouched. No pirate – unless he's loopy – would miss out on such a chance. Besides, we'd see signs of struggle, and there are none."

"Apart from the torn sails," said John, and absently leant on the side of one of the cabins. Yet, he had failed to notice that the door was slightly ajar. Before his friend could stop him, he slipped off the edge, and fell on the door, causing it to swing open, and him to fall onto the floor of the cabin with a resounding smack. And yet, the floor of the cabin was entirely white. Black-and-white, with he paper that was spilled onto it.

"Hey, look at all this!"

"Letters? John, I don't think we…"

"Why not? Maybe it'll help us. Think detectives. They watch out for every little detail. So let's do that, while those idlers walk endlessly around the empty deck. We're not even supposed to be here.…The committee's investigating the matter. We can just fool around."

He picked up one of the many papers, those black-and-white butterflies that had drifted through the air to the ground. Indeed, they were letters. Letters to someone, from someone; letters with heart and soul, or, perhaps, just letters that were written for the sake of empty words. The cursive, the neat slant of the letters suggested a feminine hand; and that would indeed explain the presence of the women's gloves they had found…He read aloud.

_Dear David, _

_Do you know about this ship? It has a most interesting history. My husband talked to be about it a few days ago. That's what I told you, about conversations with him. He is a most interesting companion. Perhaps I will learn to survive without you, and with him. My lot is not as bad as that of other woman. Thank heavens I'm not Catherine Howard (1). _

_So, about this ship. Well, of course, you, as a great ship enthusiast, would believe that this ship was built in Nova Scotia, as the 'Amazon'. Well, that much is untrue! _

He tossed the letter aside, playfully, and looked up at his fellow John. He was surprised to see a look of utmost sobriety on his face. His eyebrows were set in a frown. A frown he knew to well indicated intense disapproval.

"Relax, John! This is so dramatic! And what if the clue to the ship's abandonment lies here?" he said, shaking a handful of papers at John. Failing to produce any response but a deeper frown, he turned back to the letter.

_The ship builders were pressured to have the ship __ready in a set deadline, and they weren't managing. Spencer's Island didn't have that much resource or wealth to build that ship on time. So they just renamed an old English ship that had recently sailed for the New World. An old English ship belonging to a young couple who sold it. They had come to the New World, and said they wouldn't be needing the ship anymore. The young man decided to give up his sailing. He said they had sailed half the world and now wanted solid ground under their feet…_

_Well, I don't know why they renamed it. 'Mary Celeste' is a pretty enough name, but 'Amazon' – I don't like the sound of it. They should have at least kept it the same…'The Bountiful'… _

"Darned ship had three names! Good old girl!" he said, eyes wide, staring at the letter.

"Surely, that is strange…come on, continue!"

John smiled impishly and shook his head, "Here now, Mr. Disapprove…"

"Come on!"

"Fine!"

_And the sailor – or should I say captain – that's another story – had a most wonderful name…Hope…I would love to be called Hope. Its beautiful, isn't it? That lady was lucky. An adventure at sea with a young man called Hope and a ship called the Bountiful…" _

_Though I am as content as Mrs. Briggs. As I said, other women's lot is worse. _

_- Yours Ever, Sarah _

"Mrs. Briggs...so this is the captain's wife?" Tutting to himself, he flicked to the next letter.

_Dear __David, _

_Well, I'll continue my story. I suppose the Bountiful once belonged to another man; when he died, he gave the captainship to his favourite sailor. My husband says he knew the old captain. And he was just that – old, and withered. Not in any fit state to steer a ship…though the ship, too, was old, and do we not think of old men when we think of the sea? _

_An old, wrinkled man, hair white, a pipe in his mouth, steering a ship, through calm, blue-grey waters. _

_-Sarah _

As he picked up the next letter, he noticed a blot of red. A blot of dried, wrinkly red amidst white. Not unlike red ink, and yet much more sinister. For it was not ink.

There were more letters, more pages, pages of stories, of promises, of declarations of love, of the incomprehensible paradox of separation and togetherness. And yet, the only thing he saw, the only thing they saw, was the blood. He picked up the page, the page with that unsettling bloom of color upon the white paper, that bloom of sickening dried blood, and read.

_Dear __David, _

_I know we won't see each other again. The New World is a long way away from where I'm going, and I cannot even bring myself to tell you how far. Perhaps I haven't come to terms with it myself. I believe he suspects it; I love him, David, I love my husband. Understand that, please. But never in the way in which I love you. He is a companion; someone to play cards with at dinnertime; someone to talk to when all seems bland and boring; someone whose shoulder I know I can cry on…you will, of course, say, that you, too, can be all these things for me. Yes, that's true…but women in love also have friends, and ironic as it can be, my husband is just that – a friend. But sometimes, I grow tired of pretending. I fear that he knows, deep down, and that if I mention being unhappy to part from America, he will fly into a great rage, and possibly take my little Sophia. I cannot allow that. There have been so many cases of such things happening. _

_I will live with him. He is, after all, your friend. _

_And a seafarer, an ardent one. _

_Just like you. _

_Forgive me. _

_- Sarah _

He looked up from the letter, his confusion mirrored in the eyes of his friend.

"David…"

"Briggs' friend? A seafarer? David? What are the odds, John?"

"Captain Morehouse? Mrs. Briggs...and Captain Morehouse?"

They both looked at the blood-stained paper, incredulous.

"D'you say he…took his life? Or hers? After he read…his best friend…"

John, John Johnson, raised his hand. There was authority in his voice, in his eyes. Even his friend wouldn't miss that.

"Leave them here." He twitched his hand again to silence him as he opened his mouth to protest. "I captain with a broken heart is much worse luck than any woman on a ship."

They both looked up as a voice summoned them to the deck. "Johnson! Wright! Up here!" It was Morehouse. _Poor David…_

"Hide the gloves. Just in case. And let's go."

As they walked onto the deck, John Johnson sniffed his fingers. They smelt of azaleas. The azaleas those gloves had touched, perhaps, or held. Azaleas from David, perhaps. Or just a keepsake. He would not know.

_No-one need ever know_, he thought, as he walked across the deck of Mary Celeste. The ghost ship.

1 Catherine Howard, Queen Consort of England 1540-1541; was about 17 years old when Henry VIII of England took her as his fifth wife. Henry at the time was obese, diseased, quite revolting and old enough to be her grandfather; unsurprisingly, she had an affair with a young courtier named Thomas Culpepper, and made a mistake of taking into her service one Francis Dereham with whom she had been close before her arrival at court, and was hence beheaded for treason, meaning adultery while being married to the king.


	28. The Eternity Fir

So, I have settled into London more or less, and I don't really love it, its wet and rainy and windy and a lot like Moscow. Yuk. In addition to that, everything here is so organized, and so correct, I dont know if thats good or not, I'm not used to everything being so planned and systematic, I'm used to everything being chaotic and sort of messy and random. I'm just not an organised person myself either.

Well, here's a chapter.

And by the way, I got lost in the city today trying to find my acommodation house and accidentally got onto Fleet Street! Lol. Well, I cant say it was anything unusual. Just a street. But it does have that charm about it, that only ST fans understand I suppose.

Hope you enjoy this one.

greets from London! Fingers crossed for some sunshine tomorrow.

XXVIII. The Eternity Fir

A tree can touch the sky when you are young; a bird can reach heaven just by flapping its wings, and rainbows are roads that lead to another world.

A story can be real when you are young; a dragon sleeps just behind that parked carriage, and a red fairy hides among the tomatoes in a grocer's cart. He loves stories, and he believes that the tallest trees, the cypresses and elms, the yews and even pines, reach up to heaven. And he dreams that one day he will grow tall and strong enough to climb up one of them, and hear the angels sing.

They, the street boys, they all loved stories. He was not the only one, not by far. The street boys, they all looked for sparkles from a wand in the dust on the floor, they saw gold in the droplets of water that rose from under the loud wheels of a carriage, from under the hooves of a horse. They told stories to each other by dark of night and by light of day; when it rained, and when it was dry. The story was bread when there was none to put in their mouths; the story was light when they thought the night would never end.

One of their favourite stories was that of the Eternity Fir. It was their favourite simply because it concerned one tree that grew in Hyde Park. It was the tallest, greenest, most beautiful tree there, and perhaps, it was the most beautiful tree in London, because no matter how much it rained, the branches would not sag or bend, become drab in colour or droop. It seemed so fluffy that one quite forgot about the needles that were leaves upon that tree.

To him, as, probably, to many other street children, the tree was proof of heaven, and for sure, if he climbed to the top of that one, if he just managed when he was a little older, old enough to reach the lowest branch, he would be able to hear the angels sing.

The story of this tree was, that long ago, long before men began riding around in fancy carriages and wearing top hats, long even before man could read and write, one man living in a swampy, constantly flooded land that would later become London, once found a bright green seed floating in the water that drenched the ground. This man had never seen a seed before; he had only heard of lands where men could bury seeds in the ground to get more and more seeds from tall, green trees, where delicious fruit could also grow. So, he took the seeds and buried them under the wet ground. He had little hope that they would grow into a tree since everything was so drenched the seed would surely drown, and perish. And yet, the seed grew and grew, grew into a tall, beautiful tree. And then, when it reached its tallest, a spirit, a woman with green hair and eyes, appeared to him. She told him she was grateful to him for reviving the tree and not destroying the seed, for it was no ordinary tree; he had, in fact, saved the spirit of the earth that had resided within it. By doing so he had proved himself different from all other men, who had no respect for nature.

And so the spirit told him that as a sign of gratitude for his kindness to nature, she would take all the water that swamped the ground and flooded it, and send it to the skies…and so, dry land appeared beneath the man's feet, and yet the sky was eternally clouded and thunderous, for all the water that had been on the ground now filled the heavens above it…the land that would become London, where the Eternity Fir would grow forever, unaltered. For it was not a tree, but a spirit.

And because this spirit was the mother nature, all the children of the street, all the abandoned ones would come to the Fir and touch it, rest under its lush green branches and inhale the fresh coniferous scent of its resin.

The boy, full of misery from a bad day, strolled over to the Fir. The other children laughed at him when they saw him talking to it. And yet, all of them had done so at least once, when the troubles became too much to bear.

He approached the tree, and looked at its great branches and beautiful emerald-green needles.

'Hello there,' he said, his voice quite small, 'I didn't find anything to eat today. Mister bread-seller got fed up and said I cant get free bread from him any more; I got kicked in the shins by some rich boy who lives in one of them big grey houses and lost the apple I found yesterday.'

The tree usually remained as silent as death; and yet, the boy jumped as he heard a woman's voice answer. The voice was rather cracked and tired, and yet, for sure, a woman's voice.

'You talking to me, son?"

The boy looked up at the Eternity Fir, aghast. Could it be that the spirit of the forest had finally answered him, after so many monologues? The boy opened his mouth to answer, but his throat was too constricted to allow that. For a moment he reflected on that; the spirit had not said anything since those first words, and the boy figured that if he continued being silent, the spirit might tire of him and not answer at all, even if he spoke again after a length of time.

'Yes," he finally said, feeling relieved.

"What's it then?"

"Well, I'm rather miserable," he wondered how he should address her. He did not know her name, or what men – or boys – called her, and so he just settled with, "madam."

The spirit did not respond, and so he resumed talking. "I have no mother, no father, no-one to turn to, and now I am like to die on the streets of hunger…"

The spirit was silent for a while. "We're all miserable out here son."

The boy looked up at the tree, puzzled. He wondered why it – or, should he think _she _– would feel bad – the best tree for miles, surely, so green and tall and beautiful, surely tall enough to hear the angels sing every day, surely tall enough to reach the sun through the clouds, the sun that no other tree could reach.

"But why are you miserable, madam?"

"I had a little baby too, you know, little red-cheeked baby." The spirit paused for a while, and sighed. "She left. Left me all alone, alone and lonely," she continued chanting the two words, _alone_, and _lonely_, to herself, quieter and quieter until she became silent again. "Come round 'ere, I'll give you a hold and a penny."

The boy stared at the tree, his eyes wide as saucers. He had heard amazing, awe-inspiring stories about the Eternity Fir helping people, about money falling from the green branches like raindrops, but he had never believed those tales to be any more than that – just tales. Now, however, he found himself edging his way around the trunk of the Eternity Fir, looking for those miracles he had never believed in.

He gasped. A woman was sitting there, at the base of the tree, looking expectantly at him. She wore a tattered bonnet and dress, she was dirty and looked as though she had lived on the streets for years. Had the spirit summoned her, to give the boy comfort and money? Why, then, had she not brought him a rich, clean, sane woman for that purpose – surely if the Spirit could do anything, she would give the best to those who asked for help?

The boy stopped short in his thoughts. He must not be greedy. He had heard those older and wiser than him, those who had become the best friends of the street say that one who was greedy could never be happy; once one had something, the would always want more, and then more, and the desire would never let them find true happiness. So he sat down by the woman that the spirit had surely sent, and she held him, she pressed him close against herself and ran her blackened fingers through his hair.

So this was what it was like to be loved, to have a mother. The boy closed his eyes and laid his head against the woman's chest.

Surely, the boy believed that the Eternity Fir, the beautiful tree of Hyde Park, had sent the woman to him. And indeed, how would one doubt the power of the eternal green, of nature, of things that remain constant forever? Her mother's instinct, unperturbed by anything she had gone through, surely had its roots in the spirit, in that spirit of nature, that the boys, the children of the street, called the Eternity Fir….


End file.
